Summer 2014: Poetry
ʻAʻā
by Burky Achilles
for my mother, July 1, 1936 – April 6, 2013
It is time for winter swell
to pull back and crest
into one perfect
wave of understanding
between us, the way tide
understands the moon,
the way you knew
when to add more limu
to the poke,
when the first honohono
orchid would bloom.
It is time you told me
about your sister Marilyn,
her years in the institution.
About your red tricycle
circling and circling
the flat driveway
of your childhood home
after the deputy told your mother
that electroshock had cauterized
the wound of your sister’s mind
and stilled her heart.
Time’s puzzle is how to fit
your ocean
into my thimble.
Being not seen and not heard
let me skulk
like a thief around
corners, behind
walls, collecting
enough snippets to set
the razor-straight edges
of your thousand-piece life.
Winter swell honors no time,
gives no quarter to my dog paddle
through undertow,
between the jagged ʻaʻā rocks,
to shore’s sun-bleached sand
where you wait, warm towel in hand
for my shivering body.
It is time to puzzle why
you never swam out to meet
me. Why, when I was the one
being swept under, you,
feet firmly planted
on shore’s warm sand,
were the one who needed
saving.
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