To Tiana, Oct 1994-Dec 1994
nvt. Prayer, magic spell, incantation, blessing, grace, church service, church; to pray, worship, say grace, ask a blessing, cast a spell.
I.
to define, to think of you spatially—my wound, my wombmate—would you mind? if I pulled you into
this poem?
Relationship of reaching, reaping, weeping—just two months of life, two months a twin—too far
away is the Mililani Mortuary, was your crib from mine—saw the Reaper hovering, my howls for help—
Eric Clapton, Tears in Heaven—is that where you are?—the all-location?—it’s all about space, all song or story—
please, lie if you must—tell me you know my name,
Hi’ileikeilihapapau—my inoa—Mom told me what it means—of course, it’s about you—dare not translate pieces;
letters are—language is—not enough, not the love I long for—but that’s namesake, the story, the hands
weaving a lei, forever incomplete—was it always incomplete? why, Wind?—wild with indifference, wrench my
petals?
boy with lei, forearms extended, fatally entranced, fixed exploration, whirlwind world—wingless,
flapping, floundering in void—be dauntless, my son—goddammit, Mom, if only the story were that
simple—sis, I’m so sorry—for you, forever entombed—for myself, for my survival—surviving this treacherous
journey, not knowing—Tiana, where are you? half of me, I need to give you—I need you
to read this pathetic poem—pitiful, I know, but please, please let me pull you in—
The Fray, How to Save a Life—I would have stayed up with you all night—what do I do now? shameful becoming:
whiner, wielder of wrath greater than His, wanderer, wonderer—where the fuck is “Heaven”? I need to find
Him—Lord, do not forgive yourself, apparently you know what you’ve done—the unfair exchange rate, the
conversions of infant flesh into silence and space, not translucence, but madness, abyss—
Wait, M83—there’s no end, there’s no goodbye—when there’s no heaven, I am grieving—a God-given gap, lies of
Grace—and God, I have seen your plan, your falseness, your face, stare stabbing my sister, white-knuckled grip
round scythe—Tiana, if only I cried louder and Mom found you earlier, if only my cries were loud as they are at
present, loud as your unchanged yet faceless absence, loud as this poem, pule, pule, pule—
II.
The Jewish call it kaddish, but particularly Ginsberg—in this I find comfort, not prayer but derivation—Art as
catharsis, anything as universal—I don’t think we all hurt the same—people aren’t meant to understand all
of each other—but I understand you—one and the same—bi-polar—I am at the whim of your unsee—
nameless is my depression—naming my mania
Tiana—ah’s and awes—am alive, so on and on, till our ān—and my smile is a bastion—assigned are love and
suffering, syncopation, synchronicity—inside my walls, I am raking petals into a grin—a garden
guardian, a dandelion prophet, a
Dreamer, Low Roar—I see brothers with their sisters and instinctually smile—do they know what they have?—all I
can do is hope—happiness when I’m back in Hawai’i, playing hide-and-seek with my
nieces—found you! all of you—Meshia, Taylor, Chloe, Jordan, Peyton—Tiana, hear you in their giggling,
find you in people rather than places, no need for imagining—what do I do now? shame is waiting—as if all
my actions are affirmations—all my love turned into letters, spelling your name, creating you,
Active Child, Silhouette—giving this world everything I’ve got—learning to receive—happiest when I’m with
Her—dare not substitute lives and loves—it is a privilege to be found—nameless is my depression—naming
my strength after myself, but naming the bastion Makayla—relationship of planting, holding, homing—images
one and not the same: the Mortuary, the bastion—cursing God in the former, forgiving in the latter—this is
process, forsaken Angel repairing its wings—feathers do rain, fall where they must—kindling for heart-hearths,
seeds for the cool soil bed—moonlight blankets, choreography for fireflies and cut-petal fairies—suspension of
whites and yellows and pinks—no longer longing—will you forgive me, sis? for making this?—for writing my
own songs? for more than surviving? for loving this life?—for filling that sister-space with dreams and
derivations?—for streams of tears, born from laughing? loud enough to pull myself out of poems?—