by Craig Santos Perez
For my wife, Nālani, and our daughter, Kaikainali‘i, on her first birthday
nālani clips
kaikainali‘i’s tiny
fingernails while
she sleeps —
“the rape
of oceania
began with
guam” — soldiers
invade okinawa,
hawai‘i, the
philippines, and
south korea —
#yesallwomen
how do
[we] stop
kaikainali‘i’s body
from becoming
target practice —
bullets fragment
and ricochet —
nālani brushes
kaikainali‘i’s hair
when she
wakes, sings
the names
of body
parts in
hawaiian language —
who will
remember the
names of
girls disappeared
from reservations
and maquiladoras
from villages
and schools
#mmiw #mmaw
#bringbackourgirls
nālani gathers
the clippings
because even
[our] nails
are ten
percent water —
outside, mānoa
rain falls
as large
as eggs —
inside, nālani
lies on
her side
to breast-
feed kaikainali‘i
in bed —
they fall
asleep facing
each other,
still latched —
i nestle
with them
and, for
a moment,
kaikainali‘i smiles —
what does
she dream
about? her
deep breath
rises and
falls like
king tides —
her fragile
rib cage
appears and
disappears like
a coral
island crowning —
my daughter,
i know
our stories
are heavier
than stones,
but you
must carry
them with
you no
matter how
far from
home the
storms take
your canoe
because you
will always
find shelter
in our
stories, you
will always
belong in
our stories,
you will
always be
sacred in
our ocean
of stories —
hanom hanom
—published in Poetry, July/August 2016