|
My body, old and
chafed,
like a parched tongue that day
in Kealakekua Bay
on a salty Hawaiian morning
of teal Gatorade thirst
to swim in a volcanic soup bowl.
On the jagged beach filled with vowels,
Napo'opo'o swimmers stretched Speedos and goggles,
sleek as the spinner dolphins
sailing in the cove of Captain Cook's landing.
Smoke jumped from the starter's gun,
reflexes shot the swimmers
into a race to touch Cook's death
at the two hundred year old battle anchored
in white brick across the bay
and into the buoyancy of
my body's thirst
for one more dolphin swim
before floating like Cook
in the salt of Kealakekua.
|
