Red maya birds that are not
maya birds, but sparrows and munias.
Words for the kind of rain that will leave us
without power for days, then the kind that sprinkles on
without further omen. The tropical gothic,
endangered. Pekpek flower, corpse flower.
The kind so pungent some who live near
the rare bloom go to the forest at night
to hack it up with a machete.
Flower of my inner infection.
Radio static as I break the surface.
A diver who looked like my father.
With kinder eyes, clairvoyant,
edges melded with telluric green,
uncharacteristic of our region.
Taught me to suction the sea from my ears
with a lit cigarette, its filter stuck close
to the drum. The name for breathing
out. The words I invent to adore you.
A house, though so little, the plants
that grow there are many. Drag out
the iiiiiiiii in patani. Niece. The vowels
dragged out. Characteristic of our region.
The name for how you adore me makes me
suffer. Small islands emerging from the
crook of a stranger’s neck. Kulani.
The cure: spit of two living grandmothers.
What we named things despite science.
Because our systems of knowing
know older wounds. Swallows labeled
as smaller birds. The several names
I called you despite not loving you. Yes,
we eat that, too.