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A History

ISSUE:  Winter 1984
The hawk cries in the bush beside you
while you gather maile for your father’s grave

Something stirs in the stone you found long ago at Hapu’u
It reaches me where I dream and pray at Keokea and I answer

Then you are chest-deep in ginger, slashing through its white
with a machete, and proud of the pistol you carry
I have come a long ways to see you, I have come again
Our tongues are like stone, our bodies must speak

When the mist rolls down from the mountains,
when Kalahikiola is covered, when the rains come, I am there

But we are going away from each other
and the voice in the stone is cold, it is cold, it calls for water

So I set it outside, in the cold trough
and I ask the old man to read my old dream for me

Because the wind keeps lifting me, I have wings
I cannot understand why the ground falls away and away

This new home, the sky


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