Anne F. Walker
You imagine Haleakala.
Your baby watches. Watches men drink beer
- crater fills with still glass -
Kali smokes dope
you try to pretend this
you try to pretend this is better
- hush now - the baby's sleeping -
His small falling body.
Her opening pore of earth
out
curves his body in Her ash, molten rock
turns him crisp black as the bowl after he smokes
red as pricks in his arm
become a river of red - a traintrack -
a run of lava -
his mind streams out the exploding top.
looking over the island's thin waist
of pineapple fields and trees with tiny sweet fruits.
but swears to you each night
he does not in front of "the boy".
The feel of a garage, where glossed-in-naked ladies
lean over fan belts in posters,
fills tropical air.
Kali can't work without heroin,
sleeps - you tell your baby his Dad is tired - always tired,
is better
than the falling you feel (fear
as you drive up past cane stalks
Eucalyptus up Haleakala's side.
Where horses graze climate becomes
colder. Pastures reach up to
clouds
islands seen from Her
swirling grey crater,
than the falling you feel (fear
if you leave him you will have no home again (fear
you will lose a second child (fear
this son will grow up the same as his father (fear
deep as Haleakala's reach
into your psyche's bones broken jagged.
ignites the earth.
