Kai is from Hōnaunau on the Big Island of Hawai‘i and likes animals.
Pōhaku ku‘i ‘ai
A pig found you
hidden in the old wall
cradled from the heat of the sun
Born again like the ‘ili‘ili hānau o Kōloa
Pōhaku ku‘i ‘ai
you are halved
but the spirit remains
It knows the hands of men
their industry
their smells of survival and celebration:
the blistered hair of the pua‘a
the warm flesh of the kalo, the ‘uala
You were thanked in the intricate
mesh of things
Pōhaku ku‘i ‘ai
who took care of families, villages
with your hard belly pressed
against the papa ku‘i
the excited release as muscle and stone
fell together, rose together
infused with prayers of the lo‘i:
may this land be blessed with a deep bounty
grant me life
grant my family life
grant all who seek our hospitality life
Pōhaku ku‘i ‘ai
Now you are paralysed
virility spent into shadow
but your spirit remains
You are delivered to me
and I will take care of you
Four days here and already the heat and the food
and the life makes her stomach swell.
The tank water with the mosquitoes skimming the surface
makes her face crumple.
The propane gas to make her breakfast
keeps her in the other room.
The sounds of our dream breathing and flutter
of the banana trees and dropping fruit
in the dark damp keeps her from resting.
While I pull weeds in the afternoon
when the sun rests down by Ka‘awaloa
she waits inside with her delicate skin
and tells the children stories of when we were girls
with pretty dresses and plenty of laughter in our hearts.
When they tell me, smiling, Aunty said this, Aunty said that
I nod and know that’s not how it happened.
My car is a mountain car filled with baskets
of dirty clothes and obedient children,
grumbling even after a fill-up at Shimizu’s.
We grab boiled eggs and apple juice
and putter to Caps Laundry where the whir of machines
competes with the gossip of big Polynesian mothers,
the squeals of scurrying children
who look for quarters in lint traps.
I introduce my sister to everyone while I help fold sheets,
careful to keep them from touching the ground,
and there are quiet hellos and no touching and no kisses
before she returns to our clothes, spiralling
behind the heated glass.
Zippers whack the metal violently
as she stares puzzled by my laughter, my quick talking,
my hands moving and touching the other women.
I order loco mocos and french fries that come
in mustard-colored paper spotted with oil.
I give the children quarters for video games.
They hug me with sticky fingers
and hide ketchup packets in their clothes.
My sister asks me how I know those women
and what language I was speaking.
I laugh and tell her it’s English.
She lifts her eyebrows and stops eating after two bites.
She puts her arms around her stomach,
squeezes her eyes shut, and a small noise escapes.
When I wrap up the food to take home she tells me
I have no shame and quickly throws the food into the rubbish.
Evening comes and this is the only time she’ll bathe
in the aluminium tub outside.
She covers her breasts and her vagina as she sits
and I pour hot water over her neck.
She stares into the forest, looking for sneaky eyes.
I assure her there’s no one out there, but she says
the Japanese man down the road has a look.
He’s Filipino I tell her and he brings me honey
from his farm and Tupperware full of pansit.
She puts her hand on her stomach and asks
when I’m coming home because I don’t look like
a woman who shits in a hole forever.
I rub her back with a soapy cloth.
I trust my mountain car on the weekend
to take us down to the Kona Surf disco
where the tourists smell like a department store.
We drink and laugh with good-looking men
and my sister tells stories of high school
that aren’t her stories, they’re mine.
But I let her go while I cruise with the waitress
who I used to clean houses with.
Soon my sister begins to dance and chant
‘wiki wacky’ loudly and the men laugh
because she’s beautiful and smells like them.
She points at me and yells ‘You should hear her
talk Hawaiian. She acts just like one.
Say something in that talk!’
When I drag her back to the car she knows
I’m never going back with her.
She looks at my eyes, which are her eyes too,
and asks ‘Why do you want to stay so much?
You’re like a white nigger here.’
When she sees my fist coming
she squeals and shuts her eyes.
The ride up the mountain is blue and quiet.
At home I lie on the floor watching the low kerosene
light make my children’s faces look alive.
I think of what she said and her words are foul.
The way I talk and the words that make my thoughts
change all the time, and it’s always me,
and it’s always respectful.
Rain starts on the tin roof and I watch the back
of my sister’s head, pressed close to the wall.
Her legs are folded and her arms wind around her belly.
I go to her and we don’t talk.
I roll her on to her stomach and I climb on top
so that my weight and fingers press into her back.
Soon the flatulence comes and comes
but I don’t move because there’s no shame here.