Message to My Sistah

I just did
wat I talked about doing

wen we wuz visiting
on da smartphone.

 

You told me

wat you wuz eating 
foa breakfast da adah day

and it kinnah inspired me.

 

Da last time
I ate French Toast

wuz wen I wuz living
in Hawaiʻi years ago.

 

So I wen actually
make some dis morning

and I topped 
da tasty slices off 

wit some kinamona
and some Ohio maple syrup.

 

I’m eating right now

while I’m tinking 
about you

and looking at wun picture
of our parents 

on my living room tabletop.

 

It’s just like

I’m in da yellow kitchen
up in Wahiawa Heights

at da old house.

 

Da hoʻomanaʻo is ʻono.

Da French Toast
is pretty good too.

Related Poems

French Toast

ah my mother used to make it
with eggs and milk
and stale white bread

slid onto a plate with
Log Cabin fake maple syrup
and I always wanted more

to disappear what troubled me
the man under the moon
the man in our living room

make enough spitting bacon
to forget the broken gameboards
splintered bat

missing family car
his vanishings and sudden returns
smelling of other rooms

my mother’s tears
over the stove
her catchy milky breath

Eating Together

In the steamer is the trout   
seasoned with slivers of ginger,
two sprigs of green onion, and sesame oil.   
We shall eat it with rice for lunch,   
brothers, sister, my mother who will   
taste the sweetest meat of the head,   
holding it between her fingers   
deftly, the way my father did   
weeks ago. Then he lay down   
to sleep like a snow-covered road   
winding through pines older than him,   
without any travelers, and lonely for no one.

Where Honey Comes From

When my daughter drizzles gold
on her breakfast toast, I remind her

she’s seen the bee men in our tree,
casting smoke like a spell until

the swarm thrums itself to sleep.
She’s seen them wipe the air clean

with smoke, the way a hand smudges
chalk from a slate, erasing danger

written there, as if smoke revises
the story of the air until each page

reads never fear, never fear. Honey
is in the hive, forbidden lantern

lit on the inside, where it must be dark,
where it must always be. Honey

is sweetness and fear. I think
the bees have learned to embroider,

to stitch the sky with warnings
untouched by smoke. Buzzing

is the sound of bees perforating the air,
as if pulling thread through over

and over, though the thread too is air.