aubade for lahaina

​

between our gnashed teeth,
smoke curdles.
we draw lifetimes across our tongues,
mouths pressed to hot pavement.
summer softens into sti ash,
smoldering marlboro nubs.
every man prints a smile
over his lips, tastes hollowing.
to an empty night, he begs for ocean to swallow the land.
to bristle his unmoving wife.
sand trickles into ame
& children still molding island
into home burn with the remnants of the shoreline.
concrete blemishes into dust.
when night parts,
there will only be wire
spilling into veins. plastic ickering.
each body ends in standstill:
crumbled sandstone, rotted palm, dead boys’ cotton shirts.
a man lurches towards death,
lands softly. a man is called home.
the neck of the moon cranes
to catch our corpses.
morning is homeless.
is a daughter begging
to an oxidized locket of lost brothers
swallowed in rust.
is a hotel worker oering juice
to soften hearts’ muscle, strip it of striations.
is a closed resort stripped into a hospice scouring
through her own ashes for open beds.
dusk ends in a call for prayer.
few split open their mouths, swelled with ash.
god, save our knotted bodies,
swallow these hundred fallen stones before we suocate.
we inhale the perfume of a land burning,
nestle the incense between our hands.
soft, burnt sage chronicles the clock
pressing herself into another dawn.