Extract — In the shape of his hand lay a river, by Iona Winter

In the shape of his hand lay a river is Iona Winter's fourth collection, and part of a body of work written after her son, prolific musician, Reuben Winter took his life. Here, through a poetic lens, she asks unanswerable questions, while embodying a multiplicity of emotions, and we are called to look at the ineffable absence of a beloved child. Winter's work around suicide bereavement and grief is honest, powerful and fearless, reminding us that love and pain must always coexist.

Iona has kindly shared two poems from this collection.

In the shape of his hand lay a river, by Iona Winter, published by Elixir & Star Press, RRP $25.00, available now.

Lodestone 

I know the message of the winter, navigating your death and this perpetual sadness, and the ways in which grief crouches in wait with its gnashed teeth and knife eyes, whenever snow crests the hills in hushed silences. I restring myself in echoed duplication, only to loosen the taut bindings with a sharpened in-breath, for this is nothing like the saltiness of a lover's skin, it lies thick and ashen on my tongue. 

Let me tell you of the ocean's whisper, far beyond the breakers, and in beckoning surges at my thighs. Let me tell you of the gibbous moon's promise, hauling me towards glow-worm pin-holed stars, seeking to illuminate a broken heart.  Shall I run to the shore with the wind at my back, place my faith in the whenua until it abates, hoping something will remove my earthbound shackles? 

I watch as loneliness shrouds itself, in memories I long to escape, air stilled with apparitions of you at the perimeter. There are no more ancient rākau to greet, because I remain forever splintered at their feet. I cannot neglect the shuddering cries, of love unconstrained, or the elemental wounds exposed to rejecting stares, for in this dampened manawa there is no answering sky. 

I converge in the truths of dark-veined waters, lapping at the spaces in my intricately scythed chest, like a lodestone in your pocket that longs to return. Whetū blink cold in the quickening, forsaken devotion limps itself towards an earthly pause.  There is no saviour in this wild place,  where hollowed cheek confronts the reddened dust, no  secrets in my heart when I kneel hearthside to my soul, no karakia when hope has vanished in the absence of moonlight. 

Yet when the cushioned moss underfoot has finally worn away, I will direct my face to the sleeted rain, until I hear your voice again. 

Incantations V 

There is no land, no sea There is no forest, no lake There is no building, no room That I fear to be 

No arrow, nor word can wound No glance, nor turned back a concern No whisper, nor untruth touches me There is nothing else that can harm 

~~~

Mother of every wave and tide Through us, around us and over us Mother of every birth, life and death We praise and bless

About the author

Iona Winter (Waitaha/Kāi Tahu) is a poet, essayist, storyteller and editor. She has four published collections of poetry and short fiction; most recently In the shape of his hand lay a river (2024). Her upcoming book A Counter of Moons, was awarded the 2022 CLNZ/NZSA Writers’ Award, and is due for publication in 2024. 

In 2023, Iona founded Elixir & Star Press, as a dedicated space for the expression of grief in Aotearoa New Zealand. The inaugural Elixir & Star Grief Almanac 2023, a liminal gathering, included over 100 multidisciplinary responses to grief. Widely published and internationally anthologised, Iona creates work that spans genre and form, and lives in the Buller region.