When the beat drops
by Tamara Woods
His hands banging drums and
Her hips catching beats.
Fingertips raised skyward
Asking for directions to some pagan god.
He wonders if she smells like the rain
Gently kissing her upturned face.
Music links them
Fluid ocean and steadfast beach,
He wanted her to wash up against his shore
Taking pieces of him with her.
Ebbing and flow.
Linked.
She moves like the steel drums
Birthed her years ago
In a swept away village
Where sun-kissed brows were
Stained with wolf berries
For life and fertility.
Molten golden fire strands catching the breeze
Her feet loses their slipper shackles
Leaving life prints in the sand
Leading him to her.
It would be so easy
To commune with spirits
At her side.
Giving praise to Pele
For surely her ancestors were born
From lava and tears
Leaving legacy on her crown.
And then the music stopped.
Tamara Woods was raised (fairly happily) in West Virginia, where she began writing poetry at the age of 12. She has previous experience as a newspaper journalist, an event organizer, volunteer with AmeriCorps and VISTA, in addition to work with people with disabilities. She has used her writing background to capture emotions and moments in time for anthologies such as Empirical Magazine, her blog PenPaperPad and writing articles as a full-time freelance writer. She is a hillbilly hermit in Honolulu living with her Mathemagician.
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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