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By Donovan Kūhiō Colleps

For my grandmother

I am water, only because you are the ocean.


We are here, only
because old leaves have been falling.


A mulching of memories folding
into buried hands.


The cliffs we learn to edge.
The tree trunk hollowed, humming.


I am a tongue, only because
you are the body planting stories with thumb.


Soil crumbs cling to your knees.
Small stacks of empty clay pots dreaming.


I am an air plant suspended, only
because you are the trunk I cling to.


I am the milky fish eye, only
because it’s your favorite.


Even the sound you make
when your lips kiss the opelu
socket is a mo‘olelo.


A slipper is lost in the yard.
A haku lei is chilling in the icebox.


I am a cup for feathers, only
because you want to fill the hours.


I am a turning wrist, only
because you left the hose on.


Heliconias are singing underwater.
Beetles are floating across the yard.


  • Living
  • Nature
  • Relationships

Poet Bio

Donovan Kūhiō Colleps
Donovan Kūhiō Colleps teaches creative writing and Hawai‘i / Pacific literatures at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. See More By This Poet

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