Grandmother Poem
This is where my Grandmother would light her shrine
as bodies would watch behind the counter.
In the dark, there is nothing but light.
A shrine of Jesus hangs above us. Each corner, plastered
with a photo of the holy man.
The candles burn my fingers as I lick the wax
and wipe it on my forehead.
At night, there are no bodies to encounter.
You see, we bury our bodies in the front of our house
The same place where our food is delivered
and where it is eaten.
They are not dead.
They are sleeping.
Tip-toe over the green grass, and say “Tulou” over each
strand until the under /mines of your feet are bruised.
The strain of the prayers from each house
is vibrating its way through your walls.
You forget you are praying.
Our house is connected to our church.
An underground tunnel
leads to a room with sleeping children.
Our priest is the host.
Outside the tunnel we are greeted
by the sins of women
sins of men
but not the sins of fa’afafine.
Fa’afafine are the messengers of God.
Sh...
he is coming.
Sh, or else he take you too.
Don’t go yet, church has not start
but why everyone run?
My grandmother sits
on top of the tunnel.
We smell the smoke from her mouth
as we hear her call
“Why dey all run like da rat, no one want to see da rat
Da palagi man isn’t here to take us.
Stay, we hav da fresh pisupo for later.”
Katalaina (they/she) is a Pasifika poet from South Auckland whose poems are anchored in the form of storytelling. Their work is heavily influenced by the stories and energy of her families, from poems written about her personal life to poems written about Samoa and Niue from the perspective of an outsider.
You can follow Katalaina on Instagram @katalainaspoetry.
Poem note: This poem was written when I was fifteen for my first time in the NZ interschool slam poetry competition "WORD - The Frontline."