Monday Sunrise

by Kaitlyn Yonamine
A ghost whose presence 
is marked by the scent of cabernet, a pounding gavel, the roaring of Vietnam,
holds in his Catholic palms a blue angel
with such beautiful hair,
watches black board wander then coconut rainforest,
hears the ding of the elevator:
she cleans teeth, laughs exuberantly, gets us free cookies from the grocery,
and he falls asleep on Good Friday. I shiver
at the scent of hospitals,
she sleeps through the night 
though she wakes up a bittersweet balloon,
five thousand miles of passionless knots in thick back and skull,
each mole or freckle 
benign comfort. 
There is no need 
for snow boots on the sugar plantation:
I am fourth up to bat, generations contained
in the driveway of hopeless bingo
while downstairs 
where the canary was murdered,
the tangerine tree for defends against
revelations that blood, apple crumble,
steamed carpets, and unmade beds do not
ignore the seeds which recently have uprooted from their terracotta pots, 
bearing such
kind weakness.
There is no passion in water piping,
only multiplication flashcards, phone calls to San Jose, foreign discourse, tofu soup,
and silent understanding. 
With the door gapped, stabbed, and closed
and fish
floating so carelessly, dragging behind them trinkets of waste, 
tossing smog and painting dirt, I sing
e hele ma ka pu’olo,
carry on scorched shoulders a cerulean mountain,
pretend I am deaf and eat empathy for lunch on Tuesday.
I am that fabled reform, a storm in a lockbox,
behind me red thread connects a constellation of nine stepping stone and I
and the warmest I could ever be.