Day 23: Joanna

i never watched a house burn to ground
but iʻve felt it
crumble
watch the fire thief a family of place
a father of family
watched daylight fail
iʻve never watched a house burn to the ground
but i know what it feels like to burn
know what stench fires ghost leaves behind
know the way ash never leaves
only moves
chases you
makes sure you remember
what no longer is
and what will never be
because everything was eaten by heat
and the quiet crackle
the quick strike
of a match against
sandpaper skin

day 22: Pae ka leo o ke kai (a revision from yesterday poem)

During my quest for the kāne

i send songs into the ʻāīna before me

scripture composed to the rhythm of your pahu

i imagine the hua spurting roots and rising as kumu lehua

the men and women hear me coming 

prepare puaʻa, kalo, luʻau  

all for for me to feast

i eat the tender leaves and continue

eager 

like the ocean tide

to return to your shore

the moʻo 

insist on making an impression

fling their tongues in my directions

flail their bodies as to hint at my destruction

but i have proven

that all those who test will fall defeated

I have finally arrived to find the kapu man dead

i send my voice first 

it lands on the ears of friendly hosts

they claim i am the diety of their dance

the akua they marvel to for this movement 

and yet, 

they are ignorant to the source of this mele

they forget you

do not see the shadows your palms left 

pressed against my hips

don't  feel the cool brush of wind to the sweat collected between our skin

they know nothing of the way you fed me your body

how i drank of you until every step 

every twist was an instinct to praise you 

every kāhea

a song strung from the shift your kino pressed into papa

how you became a kumu only by allowing your body to be laʻau lehua planted in earth

so that you may dance every time the nānāhuki wind blows

they are stranger to you

and our song

and i wonder 

how they might call themselves dancers

and not know your name

not have felt the pressure of your poho to their hips

the wisher of your voice saying, "pēlā" again their chests

the sting left behind by your kiss

they know not how all of this became the dance i would compose to the rhythm of your breath

only that i have been singing the same song ever since

they call me their akua

their kumu

and all i can do is wonder 

as a haumana of your haʻa

as a student of this bend at the knees praise 

if i have spent enough time in your arms 

in the center of your swaying scripture

if i have made a home permanent enough in your body

to bring justice to this ʻami

of this bend and hinge of the hips

i do not know

so I send my voice to you over the ocean

praying for reply

Pae ka leo o ke kai

the voice of the sea sings

Ha‘a ka wahine

the female bends

‘Ami i kai o Nānāhuki

she turns the sea of nānāhuki

reminding me

i have much still to learn of your body

day 21: the hula deity

while i seek him

lohiau

kāne with the kapu kino

i send songs into the ʻāīna before me

scripture composed to the rhythm of your pahu

the men and women hear me coming 

tprepare puaʻa, kalo, luʻau for me to feast

i eat the tender leaves and continue

eager to return to you

the moʻo 

insist on making an impression

fling their tongues in my directions

flail their bodies as to hint at my destruction

but all those who test will fall defeated

I have finally arrived to find the kapu man dead

i send my voice first 

it lands on the ears of friendly hosts

they claim i am the diety of their dance

the akua they marvel to for this movement 

and yet 

they forget you

they do not see the showdown your palms left 

pressed against my hips

nor do they feel the cool brush of wind to the sweat collected between our skins

the are stranger to you

and i wonder 

how they might call themselves dancers

and not know your name

not have felt the press of your pooh to their hips

they call me their akua

their kumu

and all i can do is wonder 

if i have spent enough time in your arms 

in the center of your swaying scripture

to be worthy of this praise 

Day 19: time

its amazing to me
how much time
a girl in love
can need

Day 17: Goodnight, good body,

you are skin and nails
i am chockboard and water
we love loud
scratch like salt
cool like snow
we will
bend
bend
bend
until we are backwards
refuse to break
insist on sticking
not even the sun will drive us away

but your edges against my back
make me damn to soften the scratch
no sandpaper skin
tonight
just
nails sliding off black sky
just skin
sliding into black night
just two bodies
blackened by time

Day 16: Goodbye

goodbye
good bye
go
go
go

bye

Day 15: ʻĀpuakea, Kailuas Finest (free write)

"Words are spoken by the rain on hala"

water waking on the silk of skin

call her

ʻĀpuakea

kailuas finest

lett her fall from the sky 

unto you

sparkle your skin in sheer sleet from the gods

she will move proudly along

until you wade into her

imagine her body falling over a one you love

how this mist might expand your lehua

imagine the two of them

caught in embrace

how far the love you have might stretch

how strong the two might grow

how many theyd be invincible

to fire 

Day 14: There is only make

"Nothing is a mistake. There's no win an no fail. There's only make." - Sister Corita

why are we so afraid

to step out from under the shade of expectation

and practice

and almost perfect

in order to do something

almost miraculous

where did this idea of mistake and failure come from

and how has it gotten caught up so deep in our skin

paralises

is just a forgotten promise

to try

to dismiss fear

and build

to forget failure

and make

something new

different

and almost miraculous 

Day 13: in progress

the day i saw you burning

i happened upon two lehua trees

in the center, a stream, Hoakalei

i plucked the misty eyed flowers to string myself a part of you to wear

Day 12:

iʻve sipped the silence from your skin
the bitter taste of it
had me crying til morning
you awoke
another lie whispered past lips
another moment when truth wont fit
and im just waiting for a part of your strength to break
shatter at the center
so all the small ugly words can fall through
and i can know for sure
the kind of fool i must be
to have allowed
a woman
so far under my skin
that iʻve forgotten
how to stand up straight without her

Day 11: especially now

we are unlikely
improbable
nearly impossible
we are two edges of the universe
not meant to touch
and yet
here i am
holding you
pressed against my chest
here i am loving you
to supernova and back
here i am
promising
not to let go
no matter how impossible
here i am
yours
always
and especially
now

Day 10: My inauguration speech

There are still holes in our bodies

Caverns created by your discoveries

Wounds never cared for enough to scar

From your bombs

This is not a time for speech writing

Not a time for clever metaphor

And inspiration

This is a time to picture the bodies you unfurled into the abyss

The ones who skin was already blacked before you charred them

I don’t want to hear a gay Mexican on stage

Talk about the light we can all see in mornings mirrors

Don’t want to talk about the way morning breaks over horizon the a promise for progress

Or any of that shit

No

Mr. president

This is not a moment to revel in our excellence

In a minute to remember or

Disgustingly human

An hour to shatter the glass ceiling of appearances

You

Black man

Born of woman

Born of salt

And sand

Born of imperialism

Born of bombs

And chains

And ropes

And scars

Born of roots

How could you forget?

The holes your country dug into my body

How could you disregard

The sands that spit you out whole to this world

How could you achieve so much

And remember so little

I know our black is not the same

But our scars

Are so similar

You

Have just allowed them to paint over your skin

Make you presentable

Make you represent

Something you were never an image of

And yet,

I still feel hopeful

Every time

Its your face

Delivering the state of the union

And yet

I still wait

For you to say something

That really matters

We are all waiting to be recognized

Having casted our ballot for the only body that resembled our struggle

But every time you speak

It becomes so clear to me

That you have no intention

To recognize the way

Your office

Has beaten us

Has broken us

Has made us victim

Has buried us all

Alive 

Day 9: A seed that insists to flower

When attempting to lull a foreign body 

let no seed be left unturned

scatter language over his skin

to nurture a forest of growth he has forgotten

let every song that resists to be put to tongue

come to life in the shake of hips

conjure wahine Hōpoe

sweet lehua nectar that insists on being remembered

As you pass through, in danger

Make wind of metaphor to brush chill against the nape of his neck

Let him not forget the sharp sting of ʻŪkiu rain 

how it would turn to sweat

make sure the seeds will stick

This is the way your voice will be given permanence

How you will be allowed safety in your crossing

That you may return to her

So sing your way through valley and cliffs edge

Bring vision to places you’ve come to in darkness

That your kaona may be memorialized in stone and premonition

insure that women will repeat the words you have written

that you will be remembered

as the wahine

who left Hōpoe’s lehua grove

but never forgot the taste

of sweet nectar on your tongue

a seed that insist to flower

Day 8: Horror of translation

i have know the game of being stripped to the core
how the naming of me by those who cannot decipher this tongue
will amputate every limb of my body
these are not moments i wish to pass on to my descendants
the accepting of violent translations
and a world thrust upon them in different dialect
how they will never be welcomed
in their entirety
someone will always demand that they be severed or made small to fit into the back of their throat
someone will always misunderstand their skin tone
someone will always violate them
with the scratch of repeating consonants

someday
i might find them
lighting their body
to be small
and will lose myself in their lessness
someday i might have to remember my own skin
shrinking around my bones
shattering the strongest part of me
until i was putty to be molded by their narration
someday
if i have children i might have to remember
the horror of translation

Day 7: poems that dont matter

passive aggrieve me
wants to write a poem saying
youʻre priorities royally suck
but im not passive aggressive
so i wont write it
here
wont post it
here
ill just pretend i dont notice
pretend i dont care

Day 6: a little courage

i saw small words
to myself
during the shade of night
the cold that comes before dusk
i wake saying small things
little words that help me continue
today i was without
today
cold only bought silence
the sleek of quiet sidewalks

so i hold the sounds in
not wishing to misspeak
wait for a girl to cross my path
knowing there have been words missing
she will do her best saying,

"Sometimes,
living in a big city
you just need a little courage"

Day 5: WInter

bodies frozen to concrete
huddles looking for warmth
a shadow, maybe to hold
even a smile might do
but the sun dont shine these days
aint nobody got nothing to smile about
every
body
is cold
everybody
is cold

Day 4: Body's Decay

when thinking about disaster

and the bodies left behind

or the ones choosing to stay

the ones 

who the earth was made for

who wait to see earth end

and waters triumph

when speaking of disaster 

as a child might

as you watch the water rise

when speaking of such

remember

paralysis

of any form is rarely a choice

when speaking of disaster

and the bodies 

screaming from roof tops

cursing god

and looking for a new savior

when speaking of those

not burnt by suns glare

skin as thick as molasses  

remember the way 

their bodies were chained to place

and movement is only meant for the privileged

relief

don't come easy to ocean choked concrete

when speaking of disaster

think of a bodyʻs atrophy

mutations in the muscle

making movement impossible

think of the ones who couldn't get away

whether they tried

or who believe in staying til earths end

and not running 

coward like

to dry land

when speaking of disaster

of katrina

Sandy

and indonesia

think of the body

remember its decay

not unlike its city 

Day 3: Remember Hōpoe, who glides

When confronted by the beauty of Punahoa,

seek her body.

An ʻiwa on the crest of oceans mountains

who teases clouds from the waters brush.

Seek her. Body

bending into waveʻs crash,

teasing clouds. From the waters brush

watch her dance upon silver skin.

Bending into waves, crash

memory to minds summoning.

Watch her, dancing upon silver skin

Remember Hōpoe, who glides of golden plains.

When confronted by the beauty of Punahoa

upon woman training tides

an ʻiwa on the crest of oceans mountains

Remember Hōpoe, who glides.

Day 2: Birth

My mother tells be I was born

during her doctors 45 minute lunch break

That I slid out of her

Like the world had been calling for too long

My body

Unwilling to be held within her safest embrace any longer

She said

They named me

A song

That would fear nothing but the end of its voice

Nothing but silence

And the absence of language

And breath

That would fear

Only its nothingness

She said

I was born

In 45 minutes

And became

Fully person

woman and hers

I remember birth differently

I remember the 5 year old version of myself being told and believing the story of my own desecration

How my penis

Had been severed by a team of doctors

That my mother

So disgusted by the coming of me

Strong and male like

Took a knife to my body

To have me made whole

I remember feeling missing

And the phantom itch of a appendage

Iʻd never explored

How the story

And believing it

Made me paper like

An origami sculpture

Waiting to become masterpiece

At someone else’s hand

And imagination

I remember my first period

At 16 and how it was the first true indication that the story

I couldn’t shake from skull

Was nothing more than imagination

And sculpture

That I was woman and

Would die this way

Having never fully known the itch of manhood

The way I imagined

 And this is why I remember birth differently

As less of the sliding from my mother body

Less of being of woman

And of her

And more of the 24 hours spent contorted on a garage couch

The sting of become a image of my own creation

I remember birth

As giving my body to canvas

As the minutes

All 1440 of them turned

Spent becoming a masterpiece

How owning my body

Was turning my skin into vision

And becoming woman meant

Refusing the restrictions of traditions that would refuse me this honor

Of this mark

Of being able to hold story in ink

On skin

Birth was the hour I spent weeping in from of my bathroom mirror naked

the morning I awake to find my tattoo completed

no longer a work of art

but a work of body

and wholly mine

in both imagination and form

birth

was tracing the phases of moon on my pelvis

and remembering that womanhood is not the absence of a phantom itch

it’s the fullness of expression and the courage to have all dreams actualized

birth

was the moment I realized that my body

was full expression and a courageous dream realized

birth was 24 hours

spanning in 22 years

a woman’s body

becoming

her own

Day 1: Memory

i remember this feeling
the way air starts to take shape
the way
distance
starts to feel
more and more like
space
and far far far away
the way your body
is less and less of memory
more fable
and tale
things iʻve read of before
but cant quite put to tongue

i remember the way it all
can fall to the floor and shatter
how fragile this kind of love can be
and how this
if memory serves
any indication
will be the first of many
poems written to mornings awoken
uncertain

i know these feelings
and the song absence sings

i know your body
and the way it releases me
how the days will pile without our voices bouncing off of each other
how we are made
a symphony of silence
a john cage parade of nothing

tomorrow might be better
but it will not eclipse
the feeling of being struck
by our imperfection
and the way memory seems to pose itself
a warning
a guide against repeat offenses
tomorrow i might not want to crawl into my skin and cry myself back into ocean
but that will not remove
the memory of tonight
and my shell
far too tight for my body to hide
it will not reclaim the memory
of my bones curling into themselves
of my heart
playing small
in fear
of you