The owners of our local takeaways
remind me of my late grandparents.
He’s a silver fox, fit and open-faced.
When we had no sounds in common,
he could still communicate.
She’s precise, with the dignity
of one who loves beauty
and, by luck, is beautiful.
They work, work, work, work
and in the early evening
walk around the neighbourhood
close together, chatting.
Nana was wary of Chinese people.
She was raised in the days
of the White New Zealand policy.
Then in the 90s other white people
drinking lattes on stolen land
went on and on about
The Asian Invasion.
In my wishes, my nana
visits our local takeaways.
The grandfather welcomes her
with his bouquet of English words.
She consults her conscience,
smooths her red wool skirt
and smiles. She asks him
to cook her his favourite dish,
tries out her tongue on its name.