(first trimester)
~
[we] are watching a documentary
about home birth when [you] first feel
[neni] kick // if our doctor recommends
a “c-section” if [we] cut open
the bellies of whales and birds,
what fragments will [we] shore //
plastic multiplies, leaches toxins, litters
the beaches of oʻahu : this gathering
place, this embryo plastic is the “perfect”
creation because it never dies // i wish
our daughter was derived
from oil so that she will survive
our wasteful hands // so that
she, too, will have a “great future”
(first ocean)
during the rim of the pacific military exercises, 2014
~
when [neni] was newborn, [you] rinsed
her in the sink // pilot whales, deafened
by sonar, are bloated and stranded
ashore now [you] bathe her in the tub,
clean behind her ears, sing “my island
maui,” written by your dad // his ashes
scattered in the pacific decades ago
when [we] bring [neni] to the beach
for the first time, [you] secure her
to your chest and walk into the sea
what will the aircrafts, ships, soldiers,
and weapons of 22 nations take from [us]
// “i wish she could’ve met my dad,” [you] say
schools of recently spawned fish, lifeless,
spoil the tidelands // is oceania memorial
or target, economic zone or monument,
territory or mākua // a cold salt wind surges
[we] shiver like generations of coral reef
bleaching
(first ultrasound)
~
ekungok: listen to heartbeats
echoing // is this the sound
of our ancestors pulsing
your taut skin drum
pele dances towards [us]
// is our house prepared
for birth the ocean absorbs
carbon dioxide then acidifies
// whales, birds, and fish
change migration patterns
my mom calls from california,
talks drought and wildfires //
[neni] will be born in april
of the hottest year in history
[we] buy an air conditioner,
chicken broth simmers //
“she’s kicking,” [you] say,
i touch your warm belly
until [we] become one
body heat // “e pele ē”
(third trimester)
january 27, 2014
~
the wind billows our bedroom
curtains like the vowels
in hiroshima, enewetak, mororua
// the branches of our unborn
daughter’s respiratory tree
are just beginning to radiate
[we] lather in coconut oil,
spoon tight like the vowels
in nagasaki, trinity, bikini // the sky
breaks into a thousand suns
rain clouds baptize guam
in strontium-90 fallout,
circa 1954 // what cancers remain
buried in pacific bodies like unexploded
ordnances what downwind toxins
will [neni] inhale when her lungs
first expand // what wars of light
will irradiate when she first opens
her sublime eyes
(first birthday)
~
[you] clip her tiny fingernails // “the rape of oceania
began with guam” how do [we] protect daughters
from becoming target and conquest #yesallwomen
// [you] brush her hair and sing a hawaiian nursery
rhyme about the body parts, “nā mahele o ke kino”
: “poʻo, maka, ihu, waha” (touch head, eyes, nose,
mouth) who will recite the names of those
disappeared from reservations and maquiladoras
#mmiw, from villages and schools #bringback
-ourgirls // “pepeiao, lima, manamanalima” (touch
ears, hold up hands, wiggle fingers) [you] nurse
[neni] and fall asleep, still latched // “kuli, wāwae,
manamanawāwae” (touch knees, feet, wiggle toes)
// for a moment, she smiles // “me kuʻu poʻohiwi”
(rest hands on shoulders) what does she dream
i whisper : “[neni], no matter how far from home
the storms take you, remember to carry our words
in your canoe // [neni], remember : you will always
belong, you will always be sheltered, and you
will always be sacred in our ocean of stories
Reprinted from Kinship: Belonging in a World of Relations, Vol. 2: Place.
Notes
Some translations:
ginen: “by way of,” in Chamorro (the Indigenous peoples of the Mariana Islands, including Guam)
m?kua: “parent,” in Hawaiian
e pele ?: “O Pele,” which is a line from a traditional Hawaiian chant to honor Pele, goddess of fire and volcanoes
ekungok: “to listen to,” in Chamorro
