Ans isn’t quite sure where she is. It could be her bed, it could
be her Volkswagen—her back still feels hunched into it,
even here in her coffin—and then Ans and her dream are on
a waka and all of the people bear the heads of dogs. But she
is an easy traveller; she has her raisins, Brazil nuts and little
cubes of Gouda.
      It could be a cruise: there is a kēhua here in the cocktail
lounge who has had too many mojitos, too many piña
coladas, too many tropical fucking drinks, and the kēhua
wants to get to Hawaiki so they can send their brother blue
feathers, but when Ans leans to her waist to help them
there is a waka huia instead of her camera and the kēhua is
swimming in the pool of it; the kēhua is riding an inflatable
swan and Ans will never catch their mystery; where are her
slippers, where is her breakfast, who will find her magnifying
glass—ah there it is, at her neck on a string.
      Other parts of Ans have flown off, they have
scattered like slaters; the scrolls in the waka huia help her to
remember the now, a photo negative is a shadow of the now, the
image punctuated by a click. But where did she put her slippers,
why are her keys in the freezer; she has started demanding
answers from me. This is her dream so I am wearing my old
caregiver’s smock, and she tells me things; she says, People
forget I have never seen a windmill in my life, winks, I hated
clogs, clicks, I left the place! I did not ask to be born so tall!
      Hone Tuwhare, her old e hoa, says she needs to come and
sit closer to the fire: it is bitter here in Kaitangata. He makes
her eat the best part of the crayfish, and teases her about
the tiny blue pot of mustard she wears around her neck;
he grabs the little spoon and snorts from it like it could be
cocaine. Hone sucks at the mussel but the best part of the
fire is hers, for now—for the night, but maybe not for te pō.
Hone reads to her and licks the stars into place and seals the
waka huia shut like an envelope. Have a moe, he says, have
a moe.
      Ans sends me a postcard from the underworld. She says
that she is happy enough on the cruise that never ends. She
writes:

      I get requests, I wear sequins and give in to being
      glamorous, I perform a nightly cabaret where I am draped,
      not hunched, over my Volkswagen and I glitter red under
      the stage lights, I chant every name of every Māori who
      has ever lived and hide these scrolls in the archive, safe
      from the fire. I am that sly and beautiful, and dead, I
      think I can pull off all these ridiculous favours, so they let
      me float with them a little, but the little feels like forever
      and someone is singing give it back—what do they want
      from me? Maybe it is something deeper than photos or
      money.

      Talia, I told you the name of the man in the singlet in Te
      Kaha, his face is carved into the prow of this waka, but
      it is the woman who takes off her dog mask and turns to
      tell me to adjust my sequins so no one can see your bruise.

      I am missing my camera. The waka huia is ready for the
      tomb. I cross my arms over the blue feathers they gave to
      me, and the rare honesty I will have to give back. I owe
      the ferryman some coins too, and all your gold poured
      back into the mouth of the taniwha whose gaze came
      from inside the children, I could have stopped taking the
      pāua from their eyes and admit I did not know what I
      was seeing, I did not know what was really happening,
      which is that for every click, every time I pointed my
      camera at Māori staring back at me, it was me who was
      being clocked, it was me who was seen.

      Open it, open up the waka huia, please take it from my
      hands so they can bury me. I am tired of cocktail hour.
      I am tired of this cabaret. I am tired of chanting silent
      names.