bmp 36 Baninnur: A Basket of Food

Kāhea Before the Approach of Makahiki

After Selina Tusitala Marsh

Paukū ʻekahi: Inoa

Pule au nā inoa o ke akua ʻO Lono:

Lono-nui-noho-i-kawai (Great Lono living in the water)

Lono-nui-akea (Great Lono in the heavens)

Lono-ʻopua-kau (Lono whose place is the rain cloud)

Lono-i-kapo (Lono in the night)

Lono-i-ke-ao (Lono in the light or cloud)

Lono-i-ke-aoʻouli (Lono in the dark black cloud)

Lono-nui-ʻaniha (Lono the great angry one)

Lono-kuli (Lono the deaf one)

Lono-i-ka-ua-paka-lea (Lono in the spattering rain drops)

Lono-i-ka-ua-loku (Lono in the pouring rain)

Lono-wahine (Lono the woman)

Lono-makua (Lono the parent, lighter of fire)

Here the season as the rains come,

before the land sighs away its thirst,

before the first new moon

after the rise of Makaliʻi,

I pray

and await

your return ʻO Lonoikamakahiki

Lono the yearly one

Paukū ʻelua: Puaʻa

The stiff bristles of a pig

Kamapuaʻa—incarnation of Lono—

whose snout rummaged through

moist earth for all kinds of openings.

This rutting pig

whose exploits exhausted

chiefs, makaʻāinana, and Gods

moved as an insatiable vine across

these islands sprouting here

and there anxious for people

to consume and feed.

I’d take him in

dirty hooves and all,

bid him eat and eat until

ready to burst.

I’d let him have his way

all the while reminding him

how we laugh and poke fun

at his wild excursions.

This divine trouble maker

with hiwa eyes and a sly manner.

I’d pray him, too.

Paukū ʻekolu: Kino lau

ʻUala, Kumara: sweet potato.

Earth sprouted rainbow of

red

pink

yellow

orange

purple

light cream

white

numerous varieties to explore

with vines that grow long

and bright across the land,

a crop to fight famine, sustain

the people.

There are rumors of ʻuala poi,

tuners cooked in coconut milk,

or steamed leaves seasoned with salt . . .

Lono, your body nourishes,

I remain thankful

aware of the good dirt

beneath my feet.

Paukū ʻehā: e hoʻi hou

Come back.

Return.

Not like Captain Cook

In bloody imitation of Cortez:

a legacy of death, suffering,

diseased horror,

and stomachs turned

dry as empty gourds.

I pray you return to places like Kahoʻolawe, Halawa

Kaneohe, Mākua, Pohakuloa, Waikīkī

places cracked from military

bombs or profit driven bulldozers

Sweep down

E hoʻi hou

return

as the long cloud

a dark shimmer before heavy rain

return as new growth to break concrete

return as puaʻa to uproot the diseased abscess on the land

E hoʻi hou

return as the one who lights the fires of Pele,

a hot touch before the wood explodes

Return so fishponds and loʻi may flourish

and we may be secure in our

source of food.

E hoʻi hou

Return

because we have been waiting so long

afraid our prayers are a hollow gasp on the wind

The Mana of Salt

Ka Wai Huikala:

“The wai huikala or water of purification was always required in a kala

(freeing) ceremony. It consisted of seawater, and if that was

unobtainable, of fresh water with a little salt dropped into it.” Mary

Kawena Pukui, The Polynesian Family System in Kaʻu Hawaiʻi (1950,

145)

In the wreckage of the last words

my first boyfriend and I ever

said to one another

In New England’s frosty bite

In the hissed escape of steam through

shaken pipes

In the wake of our first kiss

I took you for the first time, bare

my back arched against winters encroach

amazed at the power of your surrender

you took me the same

fast, hard, a wild moan choked in

our throats as we raced into one another

Then,

after I returned home

After an uneven sleep

After morning kicked open the bleak sky,

and light clawed at the edges of my room

I woke shaken

revolted at what I let myself do to you,

at what I let you do to me,

raw throated and terrified, that morning

I took sea salt, the juice of one lemon

mixed these in warm water and drank

one glass

two glasses

three glasses

until

my body let loose

everything

from the night before.

Then,

stomach clenched in my bed

I curled myself makai –

head to the Atlantic

feet to the Pacific –

whispered over and over

e pa‘akai

cleanse me

cleanse me of this shame.

Where are you from?

(Springfield : spring–summer 1997)

The first boy I lusted after,

crushed on

hard – distinct

left me wanting the flavor of peaches

Georgia ripe

and

sweetness

was the last thing on my mind

until the day it occurred to me:

I want to love him, not just sex,

but love.

That summer I nearly drowned in peach tea,

drank it over and over to keep the heat at bay.

By August I learned to shiver in a dead heat.

Kaneapu Place

9:30 was a luxury against Kailua days

that raced onto the beach with 6:30 sunrise.

Coffee or tea wafted newsprint—stained

fingers over comic strips juxtaposed

against books advocating Native rights.

Guava Jam and Crack Seed lay hidden

under palm trees while music scented

its way up the hill.

Bus routes breezed over mountain highways

Past fresh greenery, cemeteries and royal homes.

Bird of paradise always seemed ready to take flight

and the poetry of that summer

never let up until footsteps

shuffled heavily onto the airplane.