In the aftermath of her visit
  
Turn on the lights and see who I really am and who I’m with
 who’s looking at me kid
 what kind of person is about to offer me
 a bowl of fruit a T-shirt of explosives a glass of wine
 spiked with delusions. Who am I really with?
 
            #

For who’s to know
who this female is
who’s looking at me
from the end of the bed.
She seems real enough.
 
            #
 
Touchable. Streetwise
straight-backed
dressed like a soldier. Still
deceptively feminine
sleeves rolled
 
            #
 
a wahine toa
with a political slogan
tied like a red sweat band around her head with
stars colour-coding the genii inhabitants
living in her eyes.
            
            #
 
Who’s looking at me kid? In the aftermath of her
last visit she left behind a world of
green-house days of global sandstorms
burning forests evaporating oceans the collapsed
carcases of abandoned cities
 
            #
 
In the aftermath no one bothered to remember the
good things she had done or if she had arrived at all
sticking her juicy-lipped aroha on the fleshy
cheeks of the newly converted the ones who 
followed in her dust or didn’t.

            #
 
This made-for-living reincarnation
seems real enough. She comes bearing gifts
of modern make-believe
and I acknowledge I’ve this feeling of a future
being made in what she gives.