Loke

Loke Swims

Like

Ka poʻe Moananuiākea

Oceania’s people.

Where do they come from?

We’re all supposed to be one beeeg ʻohana.

That’s what

archaeologists say.

Transported

On the first wave

Transported

on the first broad current

like seeds in the wind,

scattering

scattering.

On the sinking islands

of Moananuiākea.

Loke ponders.

Who were they?

Who saw the first birds?

How they found

this island?

Loke wonders,

slowly chewing

on a juicy betel nut.

Hot sand

Warms her wide ʻōkole,

the white powdery grains

settle comfortably

between the koa-brown toes

Of her lūʻau feet.

Loke gazes.

Dreaming.

Musing.

I might be looking at

Fossils

Of what kūpuna spat out

While having one big

pūlehu meal

Right here

Where I sit

Chewing.

On this

Forbidden

but humble nut.