candle by Hinemoana Baker


I.



By the time I reach the basket
of rose petals

held by the young girl with
the green sash

there are none left. Still,
she holds

the basket out to me



like an air steward offering
sweets

in the last fifteen minutes of
the flight.

I breathe in the smoke

of myrrh from the censer

and breathe it out towards
your photograph.



If this were a waltz it might
go something like:

in

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