I’m looking to score, scrolling eBay again
as dusk rolls around, Sunday silvering slip
cast into yearning for tūī, and temuka too.
Scrutinizing the listings, I transform from
Antiques Roadshow enthusiast to curator,
family historian. That’s Nan’s cup, our plates.
One minute you’re a kid in Henderson, turning
your nose up at powdered milk in ironstone.
Then you’re thrown into a cyberwar, bidding
against those Herne Bay hobbyists, who
adorn their mantels with rows of chalky vases
in matte and monochrome. No longer cradling
armfuls of tulips, the tea rooms have closed.
Funny, how luxury chips away at domesticity,
and the rich sport the veneer of the everyday.
I watched a doco about the factory once, and
spotted my whanaunga, the one whose painted
sign still decorates our marae. She, a steady fire:
honey-glazed and smiling, painting ashtrays while
jostling bub on her hip. Workers thrust their hands
into the Whau, dodging tūnā, dredging clods of clay
that yield under careful fingertips, before blooming
above the wheel’s circumference. I’d be happy spinning
teacups and going on smoko, too. Open up, I’ll be there.
Funny, such tender refinement in porcelain, and at odds
with our Westie rep—but everyone wants us, our radiant
kauri gum, wild magnetic beaches. Our wine and velocity.
I bid on a blue butter dish, and consider my whanaunga,
carving corridors through the sky, the flightpath perhaps
resembling the gently curved neck of a white swan.
Living abroad, in a city of earthquakes, collecting
vintage breakables is my biggest flex. It’s an absurd
love, knowing that any day could bring a shattering.