The skin of home 

Poem by Elena Poletti

But what if I could never come home?
I live here in the skin of another language,
Unremarkable, even when I open my mouth.
My heartspace—mad in NZ—knows no other Home.

What would I yearn for in my upside-down exile?
The one particular tomato sauce? Gingernuts?
Perhaps a parcel would come, with tiny picture stamps,
And, with the packing, a whiff of air.

Wild ocean beaches, with their tang of salt and seal-
The frail houses under mighty muscled hills-
The flow of blanketing cloud down the mountain’s side-
A southerly wailing in high strung wires-

All of these, yes, but how much more I would long
For the gentle chat of the bus-stop,
The cheerful scramble at school fair stalls,
the wonderful voices and exuberance of the Big Sing,

The daily and weekly routine of National Radio,
The water going right way down the plug.
Most of all, I would long for the things I could not name,
The simple ordinariness of being in the skin of home.

Elena Poletti is one of our guest judges for the 2017 Dunedin UNESCO City of Literature Robert Burns Poetry Competition