Huhu

Fat, white huhu larvae bore through wood rot:
a skin caster, most edible tātaka, who soon grows
wings, legs. Pepe emerges, flies, circles, lands
on our white weatherboards, then the black fence.

Huhu beetle now, te muimui: sometimes black,
yellow, brown, striped — eggs again white.
It’s nothing to huhu, this temporary skin —
this white, black, yellow, brown, striped.

Sophia Wilson

 

Sophia Wilson has recent writing in Blackmail Press, Flash Frontier, Intima, Mayhem, Landfall, Australian Poetry Anthology, Shot Glass Journal, The Poetry Archive, Best Microfiction 2021 and elsewhere.  She was runner-up in the 2020 Kathleen Grattan Prize for a Sequence of Poems and her poem ‘The Captive’s Song’ won the 2020 Robert Burns Poetry Competition.

Listen to Sophia reading Huhu (0:42)


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