Speaking of the Balloonist by Janis Freegard

Introduction, by Airini Beautrais

Neil, you were six weeks dead
when I was born, the last hours
of 1982. Almost thirty years
have gone by since then.

Driving through Whanganui,
I can't get my head around the streets.
Parallel to the river, or perpendicular?
The map in my mind is a map of the past,

probably never accurate to begin with.
The river has this kink in it, difficult
to align to. I often drive around that bend,
the

I hear you singing in the next room by Helen Rickerby

I hear you singing in the next room



It is more than not being alone



We cook together and eat

from blue bowls



Sometimes I am the wise one


sometimes you



The night we met, we both

kissed the same boy



You write �I love you� in the condensation

on the window



I lead you into luxury and indolence



We walk to the zoo and promise the animals