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Nafanua’s sister thinks about Nafanua in America

Think of my scenes: thin, meatless, glamorous as gravy.
She is making a life for herself in America.

I work in a library
not even a city library, but a library of World War Two

amphibious vehicles.
A library that only old men visit.

Old men with live geese under their jackets.
Old men with hair parted like their geese would fly if their geese could fly.

She goes to markets where market-men flog pink fluffy numbers
and bunches of plantain and say Gimme ya numba dwarlin

without even moving their lips.
I hate lips.

I hate geese flying through snow
I wish I could stuff airplane lollies into my mouth.

I wish I had a lover.
I wish that she would land in the spotlight like a wombat, no not a wombat

something uglier, less exotic, something like
porridge or

mould or
an old sanitary pad.

Yes, an old sanitary pad
that is what I wish she was.



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