[ode to the water beneath Kapūkakī also known as Red Hill]

^{“How ashamed water is to be what you have made it.”
—Conchitina Cruz}

this week i was becoming          it was the eve of a storm i was forming
 
into fluid preparing to              change state or nation into occupied
 
land over a crime scene        a body of water not over a woman but
 
oceanic in that way.              now i’m new here & no genius but even
 
i know water is life;              what is the harvest of a tank farm? what
 
grows? nobody                   deserves this, not even the random ate in
 
waipahu who                   told me why can’t you just get over martial
 
law as if we                    could have even gotten to find his body or an
 
ordinary                    grief. even servants of empire can be my kapwa.
 
what is a             colony against that? what if i got a bottle of pinatubo
 
water                    shipped here the same wai that along with lava rushed
 
down our                  mountain in grey torrents to turn one US base into
 
a ruin                              the other evacuated, tails between its legs? what
 
if i offered                                     that water to this land in places, bit by
 
bit, to say:                                              you’re not alone. keep fighting