Little Love

I stand
in a whisper of sins
and try to catch the dead skin
that falls from my body
like snowflakes—
I don’t try to taste.

Cut my hair with the wrong scissors,
watch the ringlets dance dizzy to the ground.
Cut my nails with clippers,
that make them jump from the touch.

Bury them
under flower beds,
like little love notes
to Hine-nui-te-pō.

They say—
thank you.
They say—
remember me.
They say—
I’ll be seeing you.