Recollect

There was a hideaway

made of cement and bamboo.

There was a clean cloth,

a bag of betel nut, a bottle of yeast

and sugar-water four-hours old.

There was a flashlight covered

and dimming. There were shadows

on the walls broken and rippled

to pieces. There was a place

where you made me close

for the first time and bent my arm

to the point of breaking

like I wanted, like I made you do

for the honor of my father’s village.

You undid your hair

to cover my chest. I remember

a lit butt pressed to my wrist,

fishbones threaded through my fingers.

There were names we made

for our low tide souls.

I wanted to finish you.

I wanted to move and turn you

from your quiet language,

but you held your breath.

You wanted to be stronger

and last. There was a time

when men knew how to die

in this village, when to jump

from the ridge with their jaws set,

their faces carved

like canoes that came here

when the land was just rocks

and sun. There was smoke

and there was blood.

There was the heat coming

above the reef at dawn.

It was like a plumeria you said,

a real blossom swelling, a spot

of white rising in the center,

spreading and taking hold.