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.