Tuesday Poem: “is anybody in there?” by Johanna Aitchison

is anybody in there?

The sun hits the tips of waves in Lyall Bay, the big wing, your

sunglasses as you fly into Wellington again. The blow of water,

the salt salt water, would taste like lips after chips & chips.

In the last two years you’ve taken to tearing out pages of your

diary and sending them off in screwtop white wine bottles.

You drop them in rivers, the names of which you forget almost

immediately on hearing the splash.

Your mother says, ‘you should brush your hair.’ You say, ‘I’m

33.’ She ru...