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The Fourth Day

  • Guest Writer
  • Jul 8, 2024
  • 1 min read

By Larry McMyler





I hold my hands skin-searingly close to a fire of

my father’s making. I am ten, not yet old enough 

to drink my warmth like the other men. 


I revere this sun, born not of a  

lightning strike or a rogue cigarette, but  

of a tentative and unflinching hand. 


I wonder what life within may be like, to  

be kept at an arm’s length and no more—more 

importantly to produce no epitaph but stardust. 


When I get bored of coveting the black inside of

mauve inside of yellow, I make myself of use by slicing

myself lengthwise then widthwise several times.  


I catch the wind, but not on wings, I  

smile an apostate’s promise 

and vanish when morning comes.  


I have occupied this night for seven summers or 

more, taken a toothpick to this cardboard box again

and again until there is nothing but daylight left.





Larry McMyler is a film and media student at Te Herenga Waka.


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