In Shadows, The Sound of Sixty Chainsaws & The Climb

my friend’s father is an artist: he paints
ocean scenes, waves cresting or falling, 

frozen in time on his canvas 

and trees, little tuckamores 
under pale moonlight, resisting the gale. 

my friend makes films, says 
her father has always shown her how to notice 
what is beautiful – with a lens, 
she captures movement, a face as it falls
into sadness, or light 

likewise, my father is an artist: he taught
himself to style hair 
and craft a perfect folk song, but the world
handed him darkness 

and he has always shown me 
how easy it can be to drown, 
how a family’s shadows 
can pull you down and leave you
to dwell in black water 

but somewhere deep, where the tide
of memory ebbs and flows, I know
what I learned from him 
is beautiful, too.

I have to get up close and personal
with the feijoa tree;
I slouch and creep like a gremlin
to weed the grass that grows
in clump after clump, crowding
its trunk like a needy child.

Under the shade, Izumi works nearby,
spreading spent grain in the garden – after our shift
each day she teaches me Japanese:
so far I’ve learned the words for Nan, horse,
good morning, and goodbye.

While Izumi and I walk to the beach,
the owner of the farm sleeps
through the afternoon, regaining his strength.
Before the virus stole his vigour,
he used to tramp for hours up Matiatia
or go sailing North for miles
or, once in a while,

he’d rally the whole town around him
to fuck with rich property-owners
who were trying to privatize Waiheke;
he says he’ll never forget
the sound of sixty chainsaws
tearing through a fence
that was built to block the footpath
up near Hook’s Bay.

Now, he shows me where honeysuckle vines
wind their way around the feijoa. Thick tendrils
coil up and up, choking
the life out of the trees. Rip them out, he instructs;
don’t let them win.

On weekends, warm weather washes away our worries.
We swim at Soldier’s Pond, sweaty after the climb. Parallel
with Signal Hill, a skewed view of something familiar,
like seeing yourself in a warped mirror. Andie can’t take
the dog hiking anymore – she’s too old now, legs worn out.
Katie comes for the walk too. A seamstress, she tells us
how she loves ripping stitches from garments,
the sensation as appealing as tearing through steak
with your canines.
I talk about work: the TV industry’s weird politics.
The too long day shoots and even longer nights…

It occurs to me:
none of my friends are mothers.

My former friends
who became mothers,
where did they go?
Are they on flat beaches, with blankets spread,
feeding peanut butter
to their offspring, who wail and laugh
in equal measure? Why can’t we climb
this hill, carrying the backpacks and picnics
and little ones,
together?