Where I’m From
by Diane
Best Foods and Aloha Shoyu.
I am from the hardwood floor.
I am from the gardenia bushes,
the pink and yellow plumeria.
I am from kanekapila
and loud laughter.
From Montgamory,
and Haʻo
and Leisner.
I am from warm hugs
and loving kisses.
From “you too friendly”
and “blood comes first.”
I am from catechism.
I’m from Hawaiian/German/Chinese
and beef stew and raw fish.
From Grandma’s music, the ukulele,
and the sound of her voice.
I am from a wooden house,
bunk beds, and crowded tables.
This poem was published in the Hawaiʻi Review Editor's Blog as part of an e-chapbook entitled WHEA YOU FROM…WHEA YOU GOING, which was produced by the residents of TJ Mahoney & Associates, a community reentry program in Honolulu.
Diane is from a family of eight. "Where I'm From" is the first poem she has ever written. She wrote it when she took a creative writing class at Ka Hale Hōala Hou No Nā Wahine, a residential transitional facility for women making the successful transition from prison back to our communities. She also learned how to be comfortable speaking in front of people through the class. Her dream is to be happy.
Smoke
by Teal Takayama
The night after his death
I went to bed in silence,
more aware of my body,
aware of every step and movement.
I could feel the action in every
solemn joint. It continued that way
for a while, I felt everything
and it was exhausting.
I’d think of that one time when
we were on the back steps,
another cold night. We were
smoking and watching the smoke
drift away above the bushes,
breathing and watching our breath fade.
Then we’d watch it all, the transient white
separating until it disappeared out
of the range of the weak streetlight.
“The way you can tell the difference,” he said,
“is that breath disappears in two seconds.”
He was right, and so for the rest of the time
I would exhale the condensation
and count it, one, two,
gone. Meanwhile he watched,
the smoke from his cigarette carried
high. Now I think about you every time
I see my breath.
I never felt as strongly as you did,
never understood what you were thinking about
when you just watched.
Years later I still don’t know, I’m still
counting breaths while you watch, somewhere,
smoking. I can see your smoke still rising
into the night, past the bushes,
past the trees, higher. Until
it has disappeared out of the light,
out of the range of my vision.
Until it is just the smoke,
separating from my breath,
rising higher, higher,
one, two, gone.
Teal Takayama is from Pearl City, Hawaiʻi. She studied writing under Lois Ann Yamanaka and attended Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. She currently works on federal policy as a legislative assistant in Washington, D.C.
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