Other Lessons

Photo by Bernd Dittrich on Unsplash

We open with the vowels. First,
            Ā, ah, that wonder-tone, strike understanding,
lightning to the
            family tree. The low echo of the engines
of fishing vessels finally ceas-
            ing, their nets halfway to the surface &
ballooned like jellyfish, letting loose
            sand & silverbullet aku, shocked still before
dance travels up their bodies, thrumming once,
            twice, shaking themselves free
to disappear. Then Ē. Ehh, & every
            thing ancient & with a burden rolls
& lies down, is permitted to
            put up feet, mountain-faces turning into the pillow.
& so on, like this, through
            the vowels, through the alphabet
of place. It is difficult
            to translate, so let us show you
the classroom. In the back left corner
            are the instruments, ravaged by use.
A familial presence, but each of them
            unknown to you. You would not
know, for instance, how to play
            that pair of rocks, that tone click like a sweet
drip from the gutters of
            there are no gutters here. You face
the instruments & must imagine
            what sounds might erupt from each if
you still had knowing hands
            to caress them to life. Like this:

or this:

            In our classroom,
there is a map unlike any
            you’ve ever seen. Not a map
of land, but a map of water & none
            of the water is named. When asked where are
we from, we answer
            with: a backyard bucketful—a grand
mother tear—small, cupped,
            nearly drowned me—bowed with shadows
that bob & bloom
            familiar, like blood—from one place to a
future, lapping mystery no one
            brings to heel. We sing in our class-
room. Ring only with the language
            we decide is worth keeping.
So that it becomes This land
            is your land—this land is
your land—from Honolulu, to—
            or becomes O beautiful—shed—
dream—dream—
            from sea, to shining—