origin story
by Charity Yoro
I
the hollow of my belly
the hollow of our bedroom
our bedroom reflecting
this new body pleading:
i, not wanting to lose
my definition, the shape
straightening into an upper
case vowel, surprising us both
with its new sound, smooth.
portrait of a cold, beautiful house
that strange apt with its victorian crown
molding, dancing light, staircase leading
to nowhere i didnʻt think i deserved
a kitchen island my name above
the street named after a sturdy tree & that tender
gesture when we signed the lease
–– before leaving, i woke up
repeating
a phrase in a language that made sense in my dream:
phase figure five in the pitch of blue
the key
another sea
i follow the tread
on sand traced lava
rock black, release
the shutter, crop
a caravan of lifted
trucks from the frame,
post the caption
“home,” though
i donʻt know its
real name, just the
geotag
hakipuʻu
we would listen to willie k
at heʻeia pier in the back of his momʻs van
with the old fishermen & kahaluʻu chronix
& electric eels.
i used to sneak into his room,
makeshift, built beneath his familyʻs home half-
leased by the sharks at kualoa ranch, stilted between
kalo harvest & barren fishpond in the middle of the night
that left turn off
johnson rd broke a lot of collarbones.
once he dreamt i appeared
in the dark at his door & sat
at the foot of his bed, stroking
his sixth toe. he woke up
shivering, door thrown open
to a silver-cast field.
there was that tree his dad
and his dadʻs dad kept cutting down
& then...
but thatʻs not my story to tell.
morning commune
shelter nomad carrying
itself slow across the slick path:
i look for a deviation
i run toward the roar
i plan my next leap in the water
before reaching the shoreline
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