“Make ’em go AH AH AH, You’re gonna leave ’em all in AWE AWE AWE!!!”
The lyrics of this song naturally bring light to many questions for English Language Learners. Not to mention poetic devices galore!! Like yesterday, the spirit of class soared as we began, but it did not start exactly like I had hoped.
I had to improvise when a) I had a new student nervous and very anxious due to the full class, chatter, and simply being that it was his first day, in a new school, of a new and unfamiliar language, in an entirely new country. b) The class was all over the place. Nobody had their journals ready, as my other, smaller classes always do. A few people were not present and leisurely walked into the door. Earphones were in, and I stood with my hand up as a mere 5-8 students waited ready. I got their attention by saying loudly and sternly, “Everybody FREEZE.” I gave a few who were moving and speaking my “Ms. L is angry” stare (curious to know what that even looks like, but it is rather effective) and once I paused and had everyone’s attention I spoke in a low and calm voice. “When the second bell rings, everyone should be in your seat, (exaggerated pause) with your journal open, (exaggerated pause #2) no phones in sight, and binders next to you. (LONG pause again). Now, we are going to all walk back outside, and try again. It worked. They respectfully walked in, sat in their seats and were quietly ready.
Once it all worked out, I raised my joyous energy and spoke sweetly, telling them to find their purple pages with the printed Katy Perry lyrics of “Firework” where we proceeded to read line by line, stopping to explain a word or phrase. I inserted drama where it was necessary to demonstrate the meanings and concepts, and appropriate emotions provoked by the metaphors. It wasn’t until I became a teacher that I realized my loud and dramatic opera-singing attitude would serve me so well. It’s a good thing I never subdued myself into a shell of conformity despite a lot of resistance to my “singing in the rain” demeanor.
Then, I surprised them and without hesitation said “Everyone stand.” I pointed to a word written in the agenda for the day and asked them to read it to me. “Participation” they said in unison. “How do we get an A for today?!” I exclaim. Again they say in unison, “Participation!” I pressed play. I weaved in and around the groups as they smiled and read from their lyrics. I turned down the volume during AH AH AH or AWE AWE AWE to hear their angelic sweet voices as they smiled back at me, and we did it once more before the bell ring where it was even more enthusiastic of a sound. We went over their new vocabulary, stopping for sentences and examples as I tallied points for groups who made use of their minutes when directed to tell their partners a sentence with the word. Class was smoooooth and exciting. They were alert, and supportive. I was prepared and had many visuals for them at the appropriate times for different meanings, examples and explanations. I sneaked in affirmations that they had to say out loud as well. Shneaky shneaky muahahahaha. The new student beamed, and he was welcomed. Everyone learned something. I am a very pleased teacher.
The power of music overtook my classroom today. Although both periods responded differently, both classes responded. It opened up discussion on language, and life. I took a risk by doing it, and the plunge brought positivity to the room that carried over into every action we did thereafter. I will forever start class like this. Today has been a monumental and transformative day for me as an educator. Today confirmed and reawakened my eyes to the diverse roles a teacher plays in student’s lives. Millionaire Mindset has set me on a spiral of embracing my inner five-year-old, which is carrying over into all aspects of my day, and no doubt causing an upward vibration into years of I hope many lives other than my own. I want it to spread like a happiness wildfire and light up the most desolate and darkest of places!
The statement “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” provoked conversations regarding a girl’s abandonment by her father, struggles of learning English, then the isolating feelings of being a new student in an entirely new country, laughed at by peers.
I started the class by swinging into the song lyrics, not explaining why we were doing it. My energy was literally everything. I noticed the way my voice tone and projection had direct effects on participation, emotion, and energy of the entire room. It carried over into recess and lunch when students didn’t even know about what went on in my classes. The energy lingered and there was something joyous and sacred happening in the classroom. There were respectful and hyper conversations, and students who I taught in summer school even came trickling in to say hi and tell me about what they did during fall break.
First we recited line by line of the song. A question was asked about color vs. colour. With ultimate uber corny enthusiasm I had them say these Kelly Clarkson lyrics like they were in music videos. Slowly but surely, as we gained momentum, both the boys and girls got sassier with each verse. By the time we got to “Thanks to you I’m finally thinking about me” they were into the song whether they liked it or not. I walked by several girls and smiled from ear-to-ear remembering the times I would also regard these moments as opportunities to show off my voice, hoping the teacher/leader would notice. So I made sure to exclaim that I heard many beautiful and powerful voices in the room, remembering the way that used to bring me joy, thinking they were talking about me. Even the shyest and most stone-faced of students read the words and at least smirked, and that was enough for me. I thought about how everyone wants to be this fearless, happy and pure five-year-old self. I remembered the way one student shared a future goal of “keeping my child heart” and looked at him as he sang the words smiling boldly and peering up in enjoyment. I thought about how I could lead a song into any lesson I wanted, whether it be the grammar/language of the song, or the song’s meaning as a whole.
After we sang together, and the loud beat stopped blaring from my speakers (I had to close my doors today, but I am sure people were wondering why I was having them become mini-American idols), I had the journal prompt (a usual routine at the beginning of class, unlike the unexpected singing they experienced today): “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” What do you think of this statement? Is it true? Can you think of anything in your life that was very difficult, but that made you a stronger and better person? This is the journal that provoked the rich conversations we had. Academically we went over words like declaration, quote, lyric, statement and their meaning and uses. There was a second element of the journal where we reviewed words we had a quiz on before the fall break, then we went over new words. These activities were all done with the same attentiveness and enthusiasm built after starting the class with music in the way we did. I can’t wait to be more corny and start classes with more positive and corny cheerleader strategies I come up with!!
I was five and Bill and I spent a lot of time together. My mom left me with him for days and weeks. He made me m&m cookies, and bought me a Minnie Mouse doll I carried everywhere with me until it fell apart. He tucked me in cozy cotton sheets that smelled fresh. He was always clean and gave the biggest most excited hugs. My angel of that time. I thought he was my dad and my mom had to gently tell me that he was not my dad but that he loved me very much. When we moved back to Hawai’i around five years old, I cried for Bill a few times missing him warm and encouraging energy.
I was six and uncle Wayne taught me how to dance. Hula became a pace of my heart, and he was both disciplining me–to be on time, respectful, and conscientious of others, while tenderly guiding me, to be graceful, bold, and expressive. Hawaiian stories–the lives of Kings and Queens, the romance between two flowers, the synchronicities between land & sea, the connection of Fire & Water, the friendship between Wind & Earth. Hula, and uncle Wayne, taught me to be strong when I needed to be strong, and tender when I needed to be tender. I became good friends with his niece, who also danced in the halau. We slowly started to do everything together. The halau was named after her middle name–Halau O’ Ka’ula o’kalani–and she had a gold Hawaiian bracelet I always gazed at with the name engraved. We went to his house which was behind the satellite city hall where we practiced, and there he lived with a charming and jolly haole man who owned a parrot. The house was clean, and fresh, and had an open breezy feeling to it. Colorful paintings, and pretty dishes. I always made sure my feet were really clean for the carpet, or else I would get scoldings. There was a tub of water outside the house for dipping feet in after you remove your shoes. When uncle Wayne left for the Big Island, around the time I was 16, dancing in another halau did not feel the same, and today I save it for Full-moon’s alone, for close family and friends on a cool summer night, or midday of Texas spring.
As a little haole girl with black feet and a sunburnt nose, it seemed as if all the mahu’s in the community adored me, likely because of my theatrical gestures and outlandish behavior. At grocery stores, at busstops, on the street, I felt special and paid attention to when the older graceful beauties asked me to sing for them or stopped to talk to me. Not once in my mind did I spend time wondering if they were man, or woman, or what–all I knew was that I was mesmerised by them, and felt loved and safe in their presence. Fast-forward to ages 13-15, when I understood a bit more, and enough about life to know how to get into trouble. My early teen years were some of the most rough years of my life, when I chose to run away and disappear for days, and started talking back to adults who disrespected me. At this point in my life I was singing on city buses and smoking weed out of an Arizona green tea can at the busstop down the street from school, or behind the 7-11 where my mom worked before she got fired for taking employee-bathroom toilet paper home for us to use. I went to the “Christmas parties” on homestead road, and watched in awe of beautiful and strong, masculine and feminine, angelic beings moving gracefully, powerfully, and provocatively. The uncles in the audience, straight and testosterone-filled men, got goofier, and more affectionate, with every beer. “Don’t Ya Wish Your Girlfriend was HOT Like Me” belonged to that night, and that night only. At 18, in the drive thru McDonald’s where I worked for the 4th year, one of the most beautiful came through with her big shiny black truck and asked if I was still dating my long-term high school sweetheart, in which I replied no. She lit up with YOU GO GIRL’s and YOU HIT IT SIS’ and told me to get what I deserve and “date around” because life is too short and that I am BEAUTIFUL. She told ME I was beautiful.
I was 16, and at this point more calm and sure of myself when I met Jordan. We went to Gwen Stefani’s concert–the first “big” “real” concert I ever went to, and I can hear his laugh in my head. He was the first person to be openly explicit about his sex life, and fantasies, and then matters of the heart pertaining to a sometimes closed-minded Mormon community we worked in together. He showed me how to dance anywhere, and everywhere, and have fun while working at a sandwich shop. We watched heart-quenching YouTube videos on the bus and went on an 8 hour hike where he said OH HELLLL NO before we decided to turn around and go back. He would randomly call and passionately tell me how proud of me he was, and if I could please check his grammar in his essays.
I am 26 and have been spending a majority of my time with Tommy. He is one of the most passionate and dramatic people I know–an old soul, and as involved in this refreshingly angry, yet rejuvenated generation as he can be. In his own transition, as I am in mine, I know he is an intricately-placed spirit, simultaneously fierce and gentle, and much needed guardian angel in my life. I am dazzled by his ever-blossoming and transformation.
There are so many more people so dear to my heart, and some of the most big-hearted and authentic people I have had the honor of meeting, who are a part of the LGBTQ community. Before I knew it was a label, a stigma, an “other than” box created by man-kind and unrelated to truth, I just knew I loved them, and that there is something ethereal to the energy they have brought to my life. As we move forward in pursuit of equality, justice, and peace for all beings, may they thrive, be nourished, and be free to live their lives true to themselves.
“Late!” Uncle Wayne says and rolls his eyes. The halau is already lined up–skirts, or pa`u’s on, hands on hips, knees bent—and a few heads turn around to look at me before quickly looking forward. Delicately sliding my slippers off at the door, I step into the brightness of the glowing room that faces the mountains, where the sun is slowly hiding behind. I pull my pa`u on over jean shorts, wrapping the top elastic band of scrunched fabric onto the correct place on my hips—not too high, and not too low, letting the rest of the material parachute and sway around my thighs, stopping just below my knees.
I make my way into the third row, beside other beginners and several three-year-old girls, their tiny Hawaiian-print skirts restlessly swinging in different directions. I fit my feet to a position inside of a square tile on the cold white floor, and bend my knees slightly, resting my hands on my hips, palms open along the creases of the top of my skirt. I’m standing tall, alert, waiting for the sound of the ipu, a percussion instrument made of wood with a hollow bottom and a curved open top for gripping.
It’s always basics first, and kahiko, or traditional hula, movements are practiced in the beginning of every class. Before we learn a new song, or practice what we know, we spend a long time practicing motions in rhythm with the thumping pounds of the ipu being tapped by Uncle Wayne’s hands, and then down unto the fabric he lays on the ground in front of him. The different paces we keep are according to which way his fingers and palm hit the different places along the bottom of the ipu.
Our feet instantly start moving with the announcement “kaholo”, in which we take four steps to the right, and four steps to the left, hands and fingers sitting flat, and pointing in the direction we’re going. Watching the older girls in front of me, I make sure I look just like them, and concentrate on coordinating my hands and feet to move correctly, and in sync with one another. Uncle Wayne watches each of us moving from side to side and comments on things we should correct while he is sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of us, directly in front of the open door, the Ko’olau mountain range our audience. The room is filled with focus as I also pay attention to my limbs, lifting them up and attempting to move them at the right time. Once in a while I miss the change and my arms are pointing in the opposite direction of my steps for two beats before I quickly turn them the other way, hoping he didn’t notice, not wanting to be singled out.
“Follow the person in front of you”, he says. Bump, bada-bump, bada-bump, bump-bump. Bump, bada-bump, bada-bump, bump bump.
“Keep your arms up—no slouching!” Bump, bada-bump, bada-bump, bump bump.
We are finally all in sync, and used to the pattern, but before we get too comfortable, Uncle Wayne declares the next motion to be practiced, “Ami!” After finishing the four-step kaholo, we jump right into that motion, a circling pattern of our hips where shoulders are to sit still, and heels stay on the floor, hands on our hips and knees still bent, always.
Uncle Wayne gets off the floor, ipu still thumping against his other palm, he walks over to several girls in my row, then to me. Letting the ipu fall he tells us to keep going, regardless of the lack of a beat, and the pace continues. It isn’t until he puts a hand on my shoulder and presses down a little that I notice my whole body is doing the `ami, not just my hips. I can feel my face warming to a piglet-pink as I concentrate on keeping my shoulders in place.
“You not bending your knees das why” he says. Bending them more, I keep trying to sustain the new-found stillness in my shoulders.
“Dea you go!” As he walks away I think I am doing it right, at least I feel like I am until he returns to the front of the classroom and glancing my way he simply says, “Remember to bend your knees; keep watching the person in front of you.”
The `ami I make to the left is always more difficult than `ami-ing to the right. My shoulders start a brand new kind of bob, one shoulder rising higher than the other with every circle, and I begin a new kind of concentration—trying to defy my body’s natural counter-clockwise tendencies. Feeling my shoulders bounce I look in the line and front of me and see nothing but straight shoulders and smooth hip circles.
Along with the `ami being practiced, we then do the hela, or simple sway from left to right of the hips, (another move where I desperately try to refrain from the shoulder-bop), then the kawelu, where we turn our bodies in one direction stepping with one foot back and forth before turning to the other side, then the `uehe, where we step one foot wider than the original placing, opening our knees for a second, pushing our skirts outward. We practice these and several more, moving onto the next one when we have done them well-enough, never being able to guess when Uncle Wayne will decide it’s time to move on. In between practicing different motions we always go back to the kaholo, before the next one is announced.
All of a sudden Uncle Wayne declares “break” after a set of kaholo’s and my thighs are jello. Other girls, and a few boys have tiny droplets of sweat on their foreheads and they’re reaching into backpacks along the wall to take out candy, taking off their skirts and placing them somewhere in the room, scattering in and out, playing chase-masters, and my favorite: Chinese-jump rope.
I’m getting used to this game now, but I only can do the first several levels, before in unison the girls announce “ope-you touched!” because the rope grazes my skin and I’m out of the game, inviting the next girl to challenge my defeater. The long stretchy rainbow-colored rope that was around the wrist of one girl all through-out the first half of practice is now wrapped around two girls ankles and moves up with each level, getting more and more difficult to jump in, out, and over of without it grazing your skin. The rest of us closely watch the legs of the player, ready to yell his/her loss into the early-evening air. Sitting on the benches and walls outside the classroom we reach our hands into open plastic packages filled with lihing-mui seeds, lihing-mui covered gummy bears, the lihing-mui powder itself, lihing-mui covered gummy worms, lihing-mui strawberry belts, lihing-mui covered dried mangoes, and the lihing-mui covered edibles options go on. I am still getting used to this taste that squeezes my cheeks together and wakes my tongue up—but pretend to absolutely love them blinking away any signs of dissatisfaction.
Everyone is sassy, cracking jokes and laughing at one another constantly. I’m observing for the most part, and laughing with them on cue. Sometimes when I chime in the response is a pause, and then uproar of laughter, which I also join in on, not wanting to seem like I’m offended. But it wasn’t long before I also found my differences to be funny, before my mouth watered for lihing-mui as we got closer and closer to break-times, and before I got better at Chinese jump—(nevermind, that one didn’t happen) and it wasn’t long before fifteen minutes was up, and Uncle Wayne called us back into the room.
Practicing simple moves using just the feet, or just the hands is over, and now it is time to use both, and tell the stories we learned through them. Back in line–pa`u’s on, hands and feet in place—we can tell what is coming next by what Uncle Wayne is doing. If he starts telling a story we might learn a new dance and, verse by verse, we will go over it—motion by motion, putting the dance together piece by piece before doing the entire thing through. If we’re practicing a song we should know, he will announce the song and start playing once we’re all ready. Uncle Wayne is our mirror as he sings the song. If he takes out his ukulele, we know its auana; if he takes out the ipu we know we’re doing a kahiko song.
Compared to modern hula, or auana, kahiko hula is bold, straighter, less romantic but more on-fire, and declarative. Each song, auana and kahiko alike, tells a story. Kahiko, which means “ancient style” are of songs that tell stories of ancient warriors or of tragic love revolving around a god or goddess’ jealousy or anguish, or of the conquering kings and the places in which they fought. It feels like passion and strength, like the after-math lingering goose bump seconds following a conch shell blow. Auana, which means “to wander, or drift” is accompanied with an ukulele, and feels like a mothers smile, and smells like a ginger lei laying cool around your neck and chest. Hands bring aloha from the inside and spill it onto the luau tables, or into the eyes of proud families, friends, and strangers watching. Auana tends to speak of something as simple as a bird, or something as exciting as driving around the island with loved ones. And Uncle Wayne is always sure to tell us every detail of every verse, every character of every king or queen, god or goddess, the intricate descriptions of places, flowers, animals and periods of time. Later I learned that not every kupuna, or teacher goes into so much detail as Uncle Wayne always did with us. Stories were told with our facial expressions, how hard we stepped a heel down on the ground, or how slowly we turned our heads from one direction to the next.
Today he has his ipu on the side of him, and is sitting on a fold-out chair with his ukulele in his arms; his left hand’s finger’s is over the strings, his right arm cradling the other end, thumbs tuning for the sound he needs for the song we’re doing next, which he announces, “holoholo ka`a.” We position ourselves for auana, right leg forward, hands on our sides, then when he sees we’re ready he starts strumming and we simultaneously move to the right in kaholo, fingers waving this time unlike the kahiko style we were practicing earlier, where our hands stay flat.
After doing a kaholo to the quick strummed melody Uncle Wayne plays, we announce as a halau, or group of dancers the first word of the first verse, which is “kaua.” This verse talks about two people heading out in their car, going nowhere in particular, just on a joy-ride. It’s exciting and we first point to the audience with one foot stepping out in front, then point to ourselves with our thumb, bringing our foot back in place saying “you, and I”, then turn side-to-side with wheel motions meaning “Let’s go!” I always remember the first verse then have to make sure I’m watching the other girls carefully so that I’m not caught in the opposite direction or turning into anyone as the song progresses, making the “joy-ride” even more exciting for me in my crazy car. Each verse is done two times, so if I mess up the first time I usually come back around the second time.
As we kaholo after the first verse, I know the second verse is coming up, and I don’t remember what that word is so I just keep quiet and hear, “`Alawa.” I recognize this one—the wind! I love doing this motion that shows how the wind is blowing hard, as we’re travelling down narrow winding roads. Since I enjoy it so much, I exaggerate my motions, making it seem as if the car is in a hurricane about to topple off a cliff.
At this point in the song, all my favorite motions are covered, except for the one at the end where we get to pretend the car breaks down, and we are hitch-hiking—something a little extra Uncle Wayne threw in for fun. So I again listen for the cue announcing the next verse, ready for anything, and then I hear “Ho mana.” This verse explains that the car is old, and has problems, but we feel so blissful driving, that nothing even matters. I’m recovering from fumbles, comfortable back into the kaholo then “`O ka pa” declares the next verse and I instantly remember that this is where we clap once softly, and show the moon shining in the sky.
It is now the end of the day and of our long joy-ride, and we’re close to the bright moon in the sky, so we look up and reach our hands into the sky, palms face outward, thumb-tips and pointer-finger’s touching, leaving a circle shape in-between and over us, showing the moon is above us. It is time to go back home.
The last verse, the same as every last verse in hula, is declared by the word “Ha’ina,” which doesn’t have a literal English meaning, but is something like “let the story be told” or “tell the refrain.” The last verse we just enjoy the ride home, and we sing and smell the smell of gasoline fumes. Then, in our halau’s version, our car breaks down and we shoo our hands outward toward the car broken down on the street, now having to hitch-hike for a ride home, which is why we’re all giggling as we end the song.
With each song we practice I go into a different world, nothing specific coming to mind at all—just entranced into the song itself, body and mind engrained into each moment. Today I couldn’t tell you the exact order of motions for every song I learned over the course of eight years, or the lyrics for all the stories told, but when I listen to a familiar melody I feel as if I am in the tiny room of Satellite city hall, in the little town of Hau`ula, and something inside my gut moves in the directions it is supposed to. My chin wants to lift with the singing of the word “mahina” so I can look at the moon; my hands want to form shapes of budding petals with the word “pua,” and an ukulele playing; I get an alert sense inside of me when an ipu is heard beating nearby; and my mind drifts around anything sacred, or belonging to the earth when I hear a chant.
After that frenzy wind riding song we do at least several more songs, stopping now and then to re-learn a section, or a movement, or even for Uncle Wayne to describe something, or emphasize what the story is about. Some motions are harder for me than others to remember. And at certain points my feet move correctly while my arms just swing into general directions they should go. Then at times my arms and hands are telling the story they should be, while my feet scramble and I scurry this way and that, trying to watch the girls and keep up with everything. One day I’ll keep up, and one day an older woman at a first baby luau will exclaim at the ending of a song “Ho, dat haole girl can dance!” and I’ll smile from ear-to-ear all night, and all the next day.
It’s dark, and my body is moving like it’s my first day all over again when practice is finally finished, pau. Everyone says “thank-you!” and bye to one another, and I’m hopping on my bicycle to pedal home, pa`u over my handlebars, a humming in my head, and long blonde hair trailing behind me in a ponytail.
I was supposed to be $815 toward my sales goal, at the Alamoana Shopping Center when the flash flood began. Steadily restless beyond belief, with barely anyone coming in aside from a few distant trolley & taxi-riders, the heavy hushed downbeat of the weather on pavement outside, and the quick shouts of thunder that excited everyone’s nerves made me still in thinking: there is nothing like windward showers. Folding fresh-factory-made clean cotton into unnatural little squares, I leaned into the smell, noise and splatter outside the perfumed doors. It was like I was watching for the first time, the new computerized versions of classically drawn cartoons I once loved, being depicted as shiny, squeaky, and strange. I ached for home.
Back in my apartment room, downtown Honolulu, the rain just sounds like a bunch of little fingers tip-tapping on a fish tank–thud, thud, thudthud, thududud. I cannot smell, feel, practically taste the rain. Looking through the glass is watching the depiction of rain through a film. There are no swaying slender towerfull coconut trees, no clothes on the clothes line outside getting drenched, no hurried slamming of jalousie windows where water leaks through regardless of their closure, no centipedes digging themselves deeper into the ground, or furthur into the middle of a curled plastic tarp on the grass, no clean loving winds wrapping themselves around every room, and no soggy wooden porches in the morning; just tiny clear beads of droplets rolling daintilly down the other side of the surface.
“If there isn’t anything you can do about it, cope”, my mantra ever since…well, ever, for moments of paused production over anything I can do nothing about. But this rain, the misty far-away, yet so-near Pali rolls by thick. I’m sitting on 55- Kaneohe- Circle Island- gazing above and below, cars passing the slow, but I never did mind back then when it was a daily occurence, because that was the best 20 minutes. Between class, and work, I was forcibly allowed to sit, and look.
Anyway, we are always sitting in the middle of many transparencies. I got off of 9:20 going-to-Makaha 40A bus after getting onto it 15 minutes before, and rain is all I am able to think about.
It stopped now, and the sidewalks have slick surface areas. Stepping off the bus I always feel out of my element, constantly watching my back because I don’t know people around town-side, don’t look the part, the eyebrow-lifting quick chin-up “I-see-you” doesn’t happen for me here…and I can’t figure out how to step so that I am steady and stable…being in these shoes, walking over-through-into, these man-made puddles on Honolulu. I miss stepping out of them, the bare skin of my feet on the ground.
Lemon Juice & Papaya
<Published in Hawai’i Pacific University’s Wanderlust October 2009>
Tall sticky grass whipped away at our skin.
We kept running through thickets knowing,
not thinking about what we wanted.
People shook their heads,
Nah beb no be shame, fuck um.
Ok you pull them off and I’ll catch.
We still just took what we needed, taught each other how
the green fruit sat under the window
everyday, almost ready,
tie-dyed orange and yellow. Then
slicing through pudding,
the tiny slippery dark seeds were
nestled like fish eggs.
Mouth watering, we took in
the pungent sweet scent.
A subtle juicy tartness, but you
liked yours with a little more zing,
Ho beb you gotta try um l’ dis.
So I did,
When was the last time you had anything like that?
Waves are knocking on walls of rocks I cannot see
under my feet, and your laugh
vibrates my head, as your own
sun brown gold cheeks lift
around a cloud-white smile. Then all
I taste in my eyes,
throat, heart, tongue,