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New poem. Reblog from my post only, hearts are welcome.
the Pacific
When tourists talk of the Pacific, they think
white sand - bright colors.
Soft, easy living.
Me, a second-gen American,
I think
of the deep
water
where the devilfish and crocodiles live.
where the Spanish galleons are torn to pieces
spilling our gold back into the Pacific.
Haik, my people’s sea-god
laughs, as deep
as an earthquake
and thick bracelets on his thick arms glow
like he raided them back
like a pirate.
I ask him,
“Why do you love me? I don’t know anything about you.”
This is not merely lack of information
For my people were ordered
by gunpowder
to follow a foreigner’s God
leaving me with wounds
five hundred years deep
where there should be stories
of a god
who comes out of the Pacific
tattooed with crocodile scales
and covered in pagan gold.
I ask
Haik, my people’s sea-god
to tell me his stories
so I can make fifty thousand copies
and sail them
across the Pacific
locked in the wounds in my chest.
He laughs
(but sadder this time)
wrapping gold-heavy arms across my shoulders
and whispers to write new ones.
