Wākea’s Blue Teeth (a super bowl poem)

It’s not so easy to smash the compass.

To rely on the winds     the golden hum of

Herb Kane clouds navigating

the tips of these mountains.

It’s not so easy to modify the compass.

To apologize when your brothers

are spreading the sashimi

and churning the shoyu mustard.

It’s not so easy to ignore the compass

because it seems to have always been here

in all its sextant glory     pointing

distracting you from Wākea’s blue teeth nibbling Papa’s chest.

It’s not so easy     but it’s possible

to say “aloha, for now” to family and friends

pouring bags of ice into clean coolers

before the big show.

To walk past uncle’s squid lū‘au bubbling green,

to get in that car and drive, with nothing

but a fistful of quarters

for the library Xerox machine.

It’s possible     because when those books

slide across the counter and you walk

to an empty table     the compass begins to shake

and the needle is never the same    again.

With every turn of a Pacific page

you realize      pukas are being filled

or new ones      uncovered.

And the art of listening brings with it memories,

of the physics of his hips and hands     when you first saw him

cast that net     slicing the horizon.

The needle doesn’t like it when you flatten the cube

to discover your kūpuna were always

just around the corner    from where you sit      now.

And the halftime show hasn’t even started, yet.

The time it takes to get from the third million-dollar commercial

to the fifth     is equal to the time it takes to find the Kānaka Maoli name

of the land that raised you     buried under the pavements     under

the brand new      two-lane     fast food      drive-thru.

But what the compass really hates      what it’s really afraid of

is when you see the lo‘i in the same way that you see

that empty Sunday afternoon library     when you finally

see the moana in your kūpuna’s eye.

So now      when you return home and the cooler is empty

and the sashimi spiral is nearly gone   unfurl

those Xerox copies across the dining table     consoling

the cousins who lost money on the spread.

And as the compass repairs itself    as it always does

it will feel the sting when it finds you       tomorrow

with your back being warmed by the morning sun.