The ocean gulped, pulling
her mass down inside herself,
and then swelled up
into Waipi’o, vomiting fish,
debris and Portuguese man-o’-wars
in a mess of muddy saltwater.
She drew back into herself,
taking the taro farm--the only
livelihood of my grandmother’s
family--sweeping the plants
into her arms, against her breast.
The valley-folk knew the ocean,
heard her swallow,
and took to the hills, where
they watched the water
destroy their homes.

I visited Waipi’o
a few years ago, and I looked
down into the valley basin,
imagining the power of the ocean
pressing farther than it ever had
in my great-grandfather’s memory,
dark and frothy, a bleak
and beautiful contrast
against the intense green
of the valley, the color
that always surprises a haole.