Joe Kalepo Galoiola Fanua was born in Aunu‘u, Tutuila, in American Sāmoa. He studied at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. He describes himself as an advocate, an activist and a counsellor in O‘ahu communities and says of his poems, ‘I (the Americanised form of the Sāmoan collective “we”) live in every line.’
for the family
It is night again for the sun and the folding leaves of the mountain trees
that shade the arid footpath worn by your feet,
weighted by popo and fa‘i dangling like earlobes from a wooden yoke.
The dogs no longer bark at your arrival.
Hinged by the sound of the wind walking by
she puts an ear to the door’s back
pulls the corner of the curtain upward: afraid it is you, saddened that it is not.
She sits on the floor eating kalo boiled in coconut milk,
a farmer’s harvest salted with your image walking away
on dried coral that leads to the garden of knotted ginger roots cultivated by scripture.
The trail marked by jasmine grows thick against cement and marble,
consuming ivi until a familiar echo escapes the cave of the tu‘ugamau
shattering the Christmas of ‘avapui blossoms with dust and ash from a wife’s sati,
her heart flames hover above the freshly dug grass at the base of the pua
where memories sing lyrics of another love song.
for Moms
Forgive me, please. Neither of us are working
although he goes out carrying hope on his back,
he returns to your grandma’s home silent
refusing to eat what I save him in the cocoon of aluminium foil
the way I used to see baked potatoes served in magazines.
My body is still too weak to help
but my heart is strong with prayer as I sit outside of your glass
castle. With someone else’s arms I hold you, stroking your limp hair,
the color of charred wood. Your eyes I never see open up
to the sallow cheeks of my mothers and their mothers as they stand with me
against the weight of the doctor’s premonition
I look a mess – wrong curly hair – strands in my unwashed face.
Three days I sit listening for your breath, take mine I urge from the metal chair,
rocking back and forth back and forth, breathing for us all.
Your eyes remain closed off to this world as your pale brown face winces.
It is time to speak only in emotions.
I ask to hold you with my own skin, to save you in my body’s memory.
The doctors are slow to answer.
In the metal chair my legs extend away from me,
feet flounder in opposite direction,
my hands and fingers knead empty thighs.
The rocking becomes my chant, my ‘oli to call for preparation, to pave the way.
You come, preparing yourself for the long sleep between us,
breath haggard and filled with calm wisdom.
I hold your hands, running my thumb across your knuckles,
young koa hands hold me for a lifetime. After an hour
or so, a smile rises up in the corner of your face.
I do what I know, what comes to me: Forehead to forehead. Nose to nose.
I inhale you back into my womb,
wrap you in prayer and whisper your name into a partly open mouth,
Wa‘aloa. Wa‘aloa, e ho‘i mai.
Forgive me, please. I want you to know where you come from before you return.
Ke ho‘i a‘e la ka ‘ōpua i Awalau.
And so it is done.