Her father was a stranded moon
a faint and far off hue
in the corner of the eye
at a low table and blue stool
set against the sky
beyond the screen wired door
that divides the world from this room.
Solitude sets the angles,
rooftops and distant birds
that primary layer of painted clouds
gracefully waving
as hands clutch the blade
of morning light descending
on the ridge of Le’ahi
as it rises in a diamond above the sea.
He was up early,
walking the rails again,
visible yet pale
as the slightest pain in the legs,
abandoned in outtakes,
in the hint of rain and asphalt,
somewhere a scent,
a self medication
lingers over the absence.
In Banjemin tiger balm eucalyptis,
I’m reminded of your presence.
With oranges and altar incense,
you’ll drift through the corridor.
In sizzling wok and summer evenings,
the past bubbles to the surface.
Brackish thoughts in the kitchen pots
bring invocations of steam
and in the waters the lucid dream
of seeing you sprinkling spices, the final touches.
There’s an ever present wind
that passes through everything.
The chaotic tail whip of the phoenix of myth
or the gentle plumeria scented breeze
that softens the city dissonance,
you knew these contrasts well.
At the base of the valley,
channeled through the gates of Moiliili,
an epicenter of energy and volatility.
Peeling back years of revolution,
like dust from the ceiling fans.
The nights offer no resolution
only the mere suggestion
of shadows in motion.
Silhouettes in jealousy, voices,
rivulets of smoke from an ashtray
drifting in eternity
through the screen wired door
and back again
to animate what remains of you,
merely dormant
dismantling time
until I no longer differentiate
between memory
and the passing of the wind.
In this physical space so long occupied,
l’lI find a continuity
in all the shades you left behind.
yakskinpocketnotes 