Moa Migration

Toes loosened into natural spacing

year after year of shoeless time–

opening into yourselves

in homeschooled life – more naturally

than with classroom lessons.

I witnessed

over years of unscheduled play time–

we dug moats to imagination,

where moas flew and kiwis talked

while fingerpaints covered whole bodies

and sand map creations cascaded over shorelines

until hand-built islands got swept to sea

where sailors modelled the code:

aid a ship in need

even when inconvenient,

even if you disliked the people.

Pacific women gave lessons

in tapa weaving, umu cooking,

musical celebration in pandanus skirts.

Rachel taught graciousness

in giving a child – my child –

the hard-earned meat that hung above

her fire drying, kindhearted

with his questions – it’s ok to ask.

Pacific men showed the way

into sheltered reefs.

They taught that men could wear skirts,

that you could rebuild after a cyclone,

how to ride a wave to a breaching whale,

and celebrate in coral regeneration.

Nuu taught coconut scraping,

demonstrating patience enough to sweep a beach.

–all of them with generosity

surpassing the expanse of the oceans.

When life returned us to land–

intentional community taught governance,

expanded teamwork, that it’s ok to ask

why S has two moms, that men in skirts

can be safe /in the western world too/.

My body plumped up after

our swinging from the mast

turned into your heart-stopping tree climbing

and precarious dancing along the top of the ridge–

while I learned to trust your innate balance,

while I learned to trust your choices in relationships,

while you learned to trust a wider world.

Your small faces lost their chub,

your wee toes lengthened

past my shoe size.

I carry our stories onto paper

while you lift your wings

on the bow of a new boat–

flight no longer from feathers and glue

but internalized in your courage

as you flit in and out of home

dating, part time jobs, career plans

– nearly ready to migrate

off the map of my imagination.