Praise the Ocean for teaching me that home is not location as much as it is
belonging where I am wanted
Praise the Ocean for always wanting me
for washing my body in and naming it child
Praise the way the water bites at my ankles
but never breaks the skin
Praise the skin on my ankle that had to break for the gun for the tatau drawn by
the gun’s mouth in the hands
of a tufuga during my first tatau appointment
on island when I was 17 years old
Praise his cigarette break
so I could complete my sobbing in peace.
Praise the umu, the underground oven of hot rocks and fire cooking the sweet coconut milk in the center of salted leaves for palusami
for the thick talo and soft fattiness of octopus tentacles
Praise the crinkled crack of metal on the edge of every can of tuna
greasy from oiled chunks of fish, peppered over a bowl of hot rice Praise the ground as dining room table
as only place to eat
at eating at the feet of our elders as the talking chief blessed us in prayer
Praise the mother mosquito and her obsession with the back of my legs Praise the stench of repellant that stuck to my skin like boobie trap
like tourist trick
like 2nd generation
like “not quite from here”
Praise the heavenly scorch of heat behind my ears
Praise the lowered heads and crossed legs atop each woven fala mat Praise the village of women who wove them
the mulberry bark that was beaten enough to braid
Praise the broken flip flops running alongside flattened frogs
on the road headed towards the church house
Praise the choir of children
who sing with one tongue.
Praise the way we lay our dead to rest in front of each house
how there is no need for cemeteries
if our kin never really die
Praise the way they return home to us
Praise home
Praise us.
Copyright © 2024 by Terisa Siagatonu. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 30, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.