Haole // Foreigner
A poem about the last Queen of Hawaii and the struggles she faced with colonialism as a child.
In the windowless grass hut,
The air drenched in perspiration,
and pain.
The combination of old,
and new,
Flesh.
The wrath of the sun unbearable,
The gentle caress of the wind closed out.
As she crowned,
A cry pierced through the crafted walls,
Drops of rain fall from the cloudless sky.
The Gods bask in their creation.
Alii! Alii! The sign of our alii!
The men cried.
Her eyes,
Plagued by ailment
But by the aid of the gods,
she persevered.
Slowly growing into her
blooming body.
She saw and heard the spirits in the
sky
clouds
and trees
She strung
bold pink and bright yellow
hibiscus petals
together with shell leis.
as she sang her songs,
her tiny hands clapping,
She
Danced to an unheard natural rhythm,
Sung to her by akua.
Taken care of by
The loving hands of her hanai.
hookamaia mai as called by the
Haole
Cleansed by the water
of the Messiah
By the insistence of the clergy
a young pawn
In a intricate game of political
Chess shuffling between the ʻAmelika hai
and the Alii.
In her times of need,
Her hanai
Would call on the Gods,
And even the new one
And heal her broken bones.
They would care for her,
As she would care for others.
