Oh, but here, here
The trauma's so much worse
As paradise bursts and spits upon our slavery
Like it's done so many times before:
Life so rich can only be countered with death
To make the place anything more than a postcard
Stored with forgotten clothes.
The tourists don't know
What it is to suffer each desecration
And wear it, in fact, as a badge of honor --
Those who've eaten the bitter, holy noni fruit
And lived through the cleansing fumes
And overdue tsunamis
And been scored with Hawaiian tattoos
And barely notice the shadows overtaken by dawn.
Birds should be heard and not seen.
The palms should sway clean
Without reigning their alien blades
To toss like galaxies. A slow
Decline the clouds on Mauna Loa
Know, but will not say
Except a reddening at dusk
When all the windows turn to gold.
