Moku
By
Nicholas Becher
It's
an island
where
everyone dies
still.
In sunlight
water
falls
from
mountains forming
rainbows
of tears
Would
they cry for anything less
than
an honest days' work
Where
the sun burns
hotter
maybe, but
still
the sun
Roaches
the size
of
titans crawling
on
the necks of homeless men women children
and
pidginechoing off the ridges of Diamond Head
silenced
in time and space
by the language of a dying race
Hawai'i burning
as bright as a fading star
with shattered dreams
preaching from beaches
The marked arms of tyrants
are plagued by howling tourists
under moonlit romance
Defined by shifting
shapes in the sky
clouded with resonance
Yet an honest days' work
leaves most native tongues twisted
in knots. Tie him up
Throw him off the cliffs of Makapu'u
let the lava rock
carve his skin
as his fathers did ours
It's an island
but I still wear sweatpants
Men are shot
in the back of the head
people disregard themselves
drown in rum instead of whisky
A serene contentment
fills the air
soaks into the pores
becomes a way of life
Just like back home
Stranded on a bridge over the Ala Wai
realizing how far away everything is
(or maybe how far away
this island
is from everything else)
a man covered
in soot and sludge
clawed his way out of the water
scaled the side of the bridge
sat next to me and asked
if
I knew where heaven was.
He
had been swimming
for
23 years
and
every time he surfaced
he
was in the same place.
I
told him he was here
this
is it.
He
sighed in dissapointment
or
acceptance
looked
out at the estuary
and
started singing
"Amazing
waves,
How
sweet the sound
that
saved a shipwreck like me."
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