Father Sky looked down
on all the beauty of Mother Earth
the hills, the valleys, then clasped her tightly.
So close was the embrace, their children
the winds, the forests, the birds
only knew darkness

On their knees and shoulders, the children
pushed them, no- ripped them apart so they
could live in the light. Father Sky grieved much.

Grandma grieves much.
Another week of that breathing tube
for you grandpa, another week of bloody
brown urine, beeping monitors and repentant nurses
“I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

We go to the chapel to pray, on our knees
she to the god of medicine, and I-
I dig my knees deep into this church pew, dig beneath
the dirty shag rug through the floor boards till
my knees rip the stitches binding us here
in this endless maze of tubes and feeble doctors.
On my shoulders I hold back grandma’s tears
your wedding vows and first home in Palolo valley.
The small things so heavy now, I carry too;
your calloused hands,
the smell of sardines and chili pepper water,
mending old fishing nets in the early morning.

I pray to cut the anchor of your sinking vessel
I pray you catch the tail of the wind
I pray a small light to lead you from this darkness

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