KIRI PIAHANA WONG is a poet, editor and graduate student living in Albany, on Auckland’s North Shore. She has nearly completed a first collection of poetry, an exploration of the colours blue and yellow. Kiri is pleased to report that her husband (the boyfriend from her poem ‘Of Books and Bookcases’) has recently made her a lovely totara bookcase that holds approximately one quarter of her book collection.



ONE FINE DAY, the Devil came knocking at my door. He asked me for my soul. In exchange, he would give me my heart’s desire.

So far, so ordinary.

The Devil himself looked to be a very ordinary man, if somewhat unusually dressed. Not surpassingly beautiful – no, not with glowing red eyes, no, and no small horns sprouting from the sides of his head, either, oh no. The Devil had come knocking at my door dressed in a rather fetching yellow silk dress. A very pale yellow. A sliver of sun, a slice of lemon. I was most interested in the Devil’s mouth. His lips were red, oh so red, and he had the most perfect white teeth I had ever seen. I wanted to touch that mouth to mine, run my tongue over the smoothness of those teeth, sink my tongue deep, oh so deep, into that red smiling mouth. The Devil wore a sardonic smile. I’ll give you that much, dear reader. He wore irony like a cloak, had his dress needed a cloak, which it did not. The Devil’s shoulders were bare. Transfixingly bare. His skin was the colour of honey, the texture of silk. I imagined running my hands over those shoulders, down those arms, dissolving myself, becoming no more than a collection of loosely connected atoms, ah how easy it would be. How very easy. I wanted to give the Devil my soul. How well it would look on him, perhaps flung carelessly over those shoulders, perhaps sewn like a brooch over his breast. How it would glow. What a prize it would be.

Ah, I would be proud to give the Devil my soul! How good it was that he had chosen my door to knock on, out of all the millions of doors in our myriad universes, all those lost swirling stars. How lucky for me. What a fortunate day.

Only a few seconds had passed – I could hear the clock ticking. All else was still. As silent as an indrawn breath, hovering on the precipice of destiny. How overblown that sounds. But that is how it was. My memory is flawless, I assure you.

And into this stillness burst a maelstrom, an angel of light, a cherub in a pink and grey jumpsuit – my niece, Anna Grace, aged three and a half, going on 300. Oh, Anna. You ran straight past the Devil, brushing him aside as one might brush a roosting fly from one’s arm. A mere annoyance. An insignificant peccadillo. The Devil looked mildly annoyed. You were so small, Anna. You ran straight to me, wrapped your arms around my legs, wouldn’t let go. Oh, not for the world, my Anna, would you let go. How much wiser you are than me.

Anna, you embodied Grace. Light poured from your eyes, illuminating the brightness of your soul. The Devil licked his lips, looking at you. Oh yes he did.

I looked at the Devil, and I did not smile. I took you by the hand, Anna, and peeling away from my legs, you walked with me through the door. I shut the door. You smiled at me. We sat at my table, and had a cup of tea. (Well, tea for me, strawberry shortcake for you).

Oh, Anna. What a fortunate day.



       (i) Not Another Story About Love

I find myself writing yet another poem for you, and I wonder why I waste the paper. Surely a tree didn’t give up its life just to be engraved with still more words about you. All those trees that have died for you over the years! Enough to provide shade for all of Auckland. I could have dedicated a park to you, rather than writing all that bad poetry. Yes, a park would suit you. Something a little overgrown, with paths that lead nowhere and have unexpected corners. And marshes with swathes of long grass to get lost in. And mosquitoes. Oh dear. If you were a park, I don’t think sensible people would go there much.

       (ii) More Fun Than A Night Out Dancing

My favourite thing, even better than watching paint dry, is to try to stay awake all night and pinpoint the exact moment when night becomes day (and a midnight snack becomes instead a respectable early breakfast; the self-centeredness inherent in staying awake all night transforming into the virtue of joining the ranks of the early risers). It’s not as easy as it sounds, although much easier than going to sleep and getting up at six – why not just stay awake? Think of all you could accomplish.

       (iii) In Search Of A Clean Slate

After a brief reprieve and a few half-hearted attempts at counting sheep, we’re back to You! (Yes, I have decided to endow you with a capital “Y”. Surely You are as important as all the other capitals in my life: God, Professor Wilson, Auckland Hospital – two higher powers and a place of last resort.) I accept that You are glued relentlessly to the inside of my head – no amount of prescription medication is going to prise You off – so much for the hospital. But that’s okay, because I guess I’m used to having You around. It’s almost comforting, like coffee and cigarettes in the middle of the night. Even better – at that moment when night becomes day, on the cusp of the world.


       Of books and bookcases

       My boyfriend says that
       the one new thing he’s
       learnt about me since
       we moved in together
       is that I leave my
       books lying around
       all over the house.

       It’s true. I like to
       be surrounded by
       books, all their
       different colours and
       sizes, a wall of
       words.

       I tell him that the one
       thing I’ve learnt about
       him is that for a
       cabinetmaker, he
       doesn’t own much
       furniture.

       I remind him of how
       he won my heart by
       promising to build me
       bookcases for all my
       books. He just
       smiles, arranging the
       books in towering
       piles against the
       wall.