Four Poems by Vernice Wineera Pere

Christmas Wish This old man carries the kind of bag my grandfather used to carry. And he wears the same kind of braces too. He purchases a pound of cake rich with Christmas fruits and watches as the salesgirl weighs it, then he unclasps his worn leather bag and opens it wide. I half expect to see inside a fluffy kitten, plump and sticky figs, or the imported chocolate bars Grandad used to bring. Peace offerings, they were, gifted to cover his whiskey breath. Nan would welcome him dutifully, and set his waiting meal before him but maintain a distant silence as he produced his gifts with a proud flourish, like some tipsy magician reaching deep into the recesses of his bag. I loved him then, I loved his old leather bag and his own brown leathery skin, I even loved the forbidden smell of his rebellious whiskey breath. And so I watched this stranger man carefully place his pound of Christmas cake into his worn and old-fashioned bag. I dearly hope he has someone who loves him, —perhaps a bright-eyed grandchild to share it with some Christmas morn.

Toa Rangatira This is truth, one cannot, Save for long quiet nights, Return to time and place of yesteryear. Once I tried with eagerness Of cherished reminiscence. But I had grown a giant Who dwarfed the once vast Marae of before, And peeling paint, Weathered wood, Blind-eyed dusty panes Wailed not the welcome Call into the air. “I am home,” I said To a whip of playful wind That trailed my words And flung them At the wide-eyed tekoteko. He gave no sign Save that carved out Of defiance. Nor would he prance forth To lay at my feet The fern-leaf symbol.

My Father And so I meet my father and look at him across the years. I smile into his eyes, but he looks away, embarrassed. He is not used to having me close. Still, we act out convention. I introduce my children and he speaks to them as one unused to children does, —stiffly, formally, at arm's length. I feel bad. I want to say Dad,