Our Red Road

This morning I didn’t even honi you when I came in.

I just walked right by your shallow breath,

your eyes shut in the living room, and that bed

stuffed with pulu. And all the blurred words

projecting onto the backs of your eyelids.

Ke alanui maʻawe ‘ula a Kanaloa…

I organize your prescription bottles like ki‘i

along the edges of the kitchen heiau

and try to remember how long it’s been

since you strung a sentence together

and draped it over my shoulders.

I grew up mountain view and I can always see

mauna kea and mauna loa same time

In the afternoon I thicken your drinking water,

obsessing on what you’ll want for the road, and pack

some paʻi ʻai a me ka iʻa. Bundled guesswork

disguised as intention once the oceans open up.

I keep a version of you in my pocket that asks,

Maybe this red road is not mine, but ours, Boy?

So make some food for you, too.

In the evening I sit you up and our eyes trace the octopus’s

footprints moonlit in the yard grass. You smile

and gulp the thick water, and I keep obsessing

about which muʻumuʻu you’ll want to wear in the waʻa.