Modi Deng
Tomorrow will be the same but not as this is
to Colin McCahon
tomorrow I will dream,
spend hours on one gleam of sky and its sound
melt away the Otago night the
biscuity dark of its foreground
lay myself on a slate body of water
cold and curved, hollow and tailbone
all and while and remembering.
but before then I will
mix myself like so
smaller than a
leaf spine / smaller than space between
floorboards / smaller than sand
in black dripping
down into the linen of every day. and wait for a beam
to send me, onwards
a conversation
my mother is not the type
and soften
fluffy with concern
each state is only a
dip into another
to be over
they bled during childbirth
told her to be quiet
reinforced the division of
from propriety
son
from solace
trying to hold up
I never understood this
saw her coolness as
grasped how
lines deeper than
away until
felt myself feel nothing
an attempt at survival
to witness crying
to rush over
because she knows
liquid
she sits there waiting for it
like how she bit her lips until
because the nurse
how years of family
expressiveness
daughter from
solitude
holding a book from
the world.
divide always
distance never
childhood grafts
a well of years can wash
last week when I
in order for something to pass
without the edges
Modi Deng is a pianist from Dunedin. Her writing has appeared in previous issues of Starling. She recently completed a Masters in Piano Performance at Auckland University, and will further her performance studies in London this September.
Please note that due to its formatting, ‘a conversation’ is best viewed on a tablet or computer.