Michelle Rahurahu

He kohe / Babbler

                     i am not and have never been fluent in reo maaori.

all i know is       phrases from books or mouths.

it’s been                    a while since i was rumbling with partial-speech,

playing hide and seek in the back              garden of my nan’s house,

screaming       where are oooooo   as a wero to whoever heard it.

                 in the beginning we all           started as         babblers,

Hic- hic-       hic-      cupping     ngaa kupu

i try to put my pounamu on my niece                but she throws it in the grass,

or it with her gums;   chomping,   glurging, cutting her new teeth.

              our girl is still babbling but the language of anarchy is innate.

         polished stone can feel as heavy as         whakamaa around the neck,

and gems and bones are    for trees, anchored on the paepae.

when i was young i would say         nehore in the face of my maatua keekee

then            run to the back room     behind the wharenui                          with my cousins,

climbing to the top of the mattresses, saying shhh      shhh       shhh.

us babblers always stay afloat.

my niece     sends me a mass of     facebook stickers                      that all say –

    she likes to mash          the keyboard,               she likes to     make the                                    screen dance.

she uses te reo        like a freshly     bought card right out         of the plastic;

some come in pairs,                 some in singles, some               are prettier than others.

her mum is studying maaori when she has time, she says, kai, baby!

but kai sounds like stasis, like an                          evening of imprisonment, it has no music.

whereas the sound of                      her koro knocking at the door is a bird song,

our girl greets it        with   ko!                  ko!                                                 ko!

i see my niece              still has some sign whenever                           she sees a

     in a field

her fists            clench and                    rock, mimicking                        the sway of the pommel on its back

my mama pushed   me to keep up        my sign                                              but

language is impossible     to barter with,               its skin is                             slick and slivering

you have to         swim with it                you have to flow, to babble,     to float on your        back

instead of standing with         primordial swipecards, outside           the door       hoping for access;

he?      he aha?   

                                       he?                       a?

i am not     and have never been fluent in                                  te reo maaori,

so i have to start    at the very beginning, at the age             of the babbler

i have to return to the days       where i shouted                        nehore and ran for my life.

i have to take that slow journey through maturity        kupu         by

when my reo       grows i will be able to follow the moko through the shrubs,

and i may even find       that small version     of                                  myself still hiding there

i may be able to say,                                   finally,

                                                  teenaa koe