You wake up and go.

Some things are meant 
to happen at night 
out of all light 
The edges of it look like a river where you swam, or like the sky from a film you saw about horses. Those bits have been pasted together to make this place. On the first day you realise you cannot crawl into a rock. 
Getting shot at in the sun 
doesn’t stay incongruous 
for long 
You wore your new school socks outside once, without shoes and made holes in them. Your mother looked like vinegar and told you about waste. That must be what panic and anger taste like swilling around your molars. 
The first laugh 
you have out here 
feels like sex 
Your ears begin to read the differences between a pop and a crack. When you are told to move up a hill, another larger, silent you, wants to know, are you fucking insane? But you don’t want to be left alone, so you go. 
You go to sleep at war 
you wake up and go 
to war, it’s not far 


Rebekah Holt is a psychotherapist and writer. She grew up in the South Island and currently lives in West Auckland.