The river of our tongues has dried to cracked earth.
Too long since wear, crawfish pronunciations,
and bullfrog syllables are shells and lumps of sand now.
Ē kapuna, make wai ‘ia au.
I am thirsty for the metaphors of our grandmothers,
their every breath a prayer for peace and unchecked giving,
and receiving was as easy as a nap with a pole in my hand on a warm day.
I crave the torrents from times when women were gardens
and there was only one table to put a vase on.
Yet in place of flowers, homework, and electronic debris,
bountiful food prepared with god in mind was served
to strangers passing through the channel.
© Sarah Bordeau-Rigterink, 2012
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| Hawaiians eating poi, c. 1896 Photo by Strohmeyer & Wyman From Wikimedia Commons/Library of Congress |
