It’s October for the twenty-third time

and the churches are forever cavernous, devoid of me: 

my religion is rivers, 

windows wide open during heavy rain and

my religion is you. 

I handed you the keys but you couldn’t see the locks

of golden hair falling at your feet. It’s October for the sixth time;

we speculate the colour of our babies eyes

and fight on the car ride home.

You pour hot water in my tea with steady hands

while I place shaking ones in the cold flow of the Tauwharenīkau.

My dad swam here, it’s October for the forty-ninth time.

Pray, by the river with clarity

by curling our bodies together like snails into shells

by knotting ropes of gold around your wrists and bringing thumbs to meet.

Windows slam and splinter and

my religion is rivers, always.

My religion is you, still.