The Fourth Day

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.

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