The curve of the hill home

On the beach my belly rippled, thick with the baby… 

I watched a child’s head go under, and not resurface. Where was the mother? Gone. Unthinking, I ran into the waves. Gentle they were, like silk around my bairn. I struck out towards the darkened hair.

Behind my closed eyes, lies the curve of the hill home, marram grass bent to the wind, sunlight bleached driftwood… 

Then a bed. The smell of blood and soap. Agony lances through me. A small window faces into the woods. Avoiding my gaze in the mirror, I tend only to the basics. 

For the lost one is reflected back; manifested in the bridge of my nose, eyes, lips…

Hands have become shell-clasped over my ears. Press-press-press. Until I hear only the sound of my heart, timed as it was with the waves. 

---

Iona Winter (Waitaha/Kāi Tahu) is a poet, essayist, storyteller and editor. With creative mahi spanning genre and form, her recently published collection In the shape of his hand lay a river (Elixir & Star Press 2024) speaks to living with suicide bereavement. Iona currently resides in Reefton, Aotearoa.