THE DAY MELTS AMONG ME 

at like 5.30/6ish
when the wind is heavy with gold 
and there’re soft shadows of glass, dancing 
every afternoon on old wallpaper 
painted a sick ivory by the landlord 

and while the mountain of rats 
that insulate the walls are still dormant 
or else plotting their heist of my coleslaw 

and an ancient draught bleeds ice 
thru the foot of my front door

and black mould is like frost on the ceiling 
that’s sagging with age to the floorboards 
and a garden of weeds climbs to your hip 
thru borer holes 

and i’m down to, like 
the last third of a bottle of old birthday whiskey 
listening to mississipi john hurt hurt with me 

rich on winz fraud 
in the wet light of the early evening 
dreaming of somebody sweet 

about then, 
when i’ve endured myself long enough 
to welcome the hour of angels 
I find my breath heavy with calm 

Liam Jacobson
from Neither, Dead Bird Books, 2023

Much to Liam Jacobson’s chagrin, I have lip-synced along to this poem (often incorrectly) at many places and spaces across Tāmaki Makaurau. One of my favourite contemporary New Zealand poems, ‘THE DAY MELTS AMONG ME’, paints a specific picture, though with a much more discerning hand than a landlord’s. 

It’s one of a messy, unfocused youth; of listlessness and misdirection in housing stock barely fit for habitation. While not a universal experience, it’s a familiar one, especially for those who have grown up working class and/or Māori, been a student or on a WINZ benefit.

While the poem feels like a lament of their living situation, there’s also a fondness, a nostalgia or a contentment. When you have a third of a bottle of whiskey, some coleslaw in the fridge and a few dollars drip-feeding your bank account, how can you complain?

Many of the sibling poems to this one, featured in Liam’s debut collection Neither (Dead Bird Books, 2023), are more amorphous and shrouded in metaphor. They require you to pull at the threads to unpick the meaning. I appreciate ‘THE DAY MELTS AMONG ME’ in context to these, as the imagery is strong, clear and in focus. One can psychically transplant themselves into this drafty, paint-glossed flat through the stanzas. The effect is heightened if you’re listening to Liam read it.

I love many of the lines, but one that stands out in particular for its playfulness and aural ping-pong is “listening to mississipi john hurt hurt with me”. The Blues take on many meanings here, and the chilly hallway becomes a lonesome valley one must walk alone. But the poem gives us solace (or sadness anew) as it closes, with the fact that when all has melted away, there’s a calm to acceptance.

Damien Levi (Te Āti Haunui-a-Paparangi, Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Ngāpuhi, Pākehā) is a publisher, editor and arts facilitator. He is the founder of Āporo Press, editor of the essay collection Tāmaki Makaurau 2025: Essays on Life in Auckland (2025), co-editor of Spoiled Fruit: Queer Poetry from Aotearoa (2023) alongside Amber Esau and was the lead editor for the online arts and literature journal, bad apple. His poetry and essays have been published online and in print.

Liam Jacobson (Kāi Tahu) is a poet, curator and artist (etc.) from Manurewa, South Auckland.