Mihi ia Tongareva
LETTER FROM RAROTONGA HOSPITAL
Hedges of hibiscus,
roofs of flamboyante
high above the roadways,
stained with bright blood,
cannot contain
my longing for Tongareva.
Thick as stars
are the blossoms
under the tipani tree —
useless to sweep them away,
when they keep falling
fast as my tears.
My husband,
when we were first married,
you were like the mango tree,
surpassing other men
as this tree
surpasses other trees
in strength and beauty.
I was like the maire,
growing unnoticed
until you noticed me.
How the young girls envied me
when I carried off the prize
for the best hula dancer
in Avarua!
You were the prize I won —
I danced for you.
Old man,
these heavy hips
can swing as teasingly,
pound as fiercely as any
that have stunned the loungers
in the Banana Court.
The tipani,
though old and gnarled,
still aches with blossoms —
though fewer than they were —
that suffocate the night
with sweetness.
The mangoes ripen and fall,
tearing the silence,
as my heart is torn
by thoughts of Tongareva.
Fear arises in me,
naked and sheer
as Maungatea Bluff,
that I will die here
in Takuvaine,
unattended by my ancestors,
and never more lay eyes
on sacred Nahe or Paniko,
swirling with seabirds,
the black terns
and the white —
never to see again
the young boys laugh and shout
as they dive among the sharks
at Omoka,
near my grandfather’s tomb
where our children lie.
By Alistair Te Ariki Campbell