The moon above ‘Aliomanu
says “stay” and the whole ride
back to the top of the hill
in the bed of a pick-up truck,
I yearn to call this feeling
that which others must feel
upon returning Home.
And when I arrive
at my wooden gate,
I hesitate for a moment
before pulling the string latch
to look at the coconut trees
swaying in starlight,
framing the entrance to my life
as I stand with my hand
on the door like I’ve done
so many times
with so many doorways
in so many places,
imagining this golden moment
becoming ordinary
and that I could sink
my body onto this lanai
and listen to the ocean
lapping the bay
until I have filled to the brim
with the rhythmic repetition
of Life.
Until I remember that, in Pidgin,
“stay” is a temporal state of being
and even the ocean changes,
swells, barrels, and breaks
and the shoreline shifts
every year that I return
to gauge the effects of Out There
on the sea levels and my soul
and wonder again how much
difference we’ve made
and is it worth it
and will I keep fighting
and the ʻāina says “stay” —
as long as the water flowing
from the pregnant mountain
back to sea once more.
Jess Lee
JESS LEEis an environmental & community advocate drawn to borders, ecotones, and the shadows between the lines. She was raised in the forests of Appalachia and lived for many years in Mexico, Hawaii and the Pacific Northwest. Her short stories and essays have been published in Cutthroat, Burnt Pine, The Humanist and Z Magazine.