Somewhere in This World
by Gail Harada
anything is possible.
ʻŌhiʻa lehua might take root in black lava
or high on a windy cliff
with blossoms beautiful as the perfect velvet-red rose.
New leaves after devastation
might emerge thicker and more verdant than before.
A native hibiscus, kokiʻo keʻokeʻo,
growing in a schoolyard
might unfurl its delicately fragrant petals
one ordinary morning as traffic merges on the freeway.
A mountain might stand more majestic
Adorned again with stories told in the reborn air.
Gail N. Harada was born in Honolulu and spent part of her childhood on a military base in Japan. She has a B.A. from Stanford University and an M.F.A. from the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. In 2000, she won a Pushcart Prize for her poem “A Meditation.” She is the author of a collection of poems and stories, BEYOND GREEN TEA AND GRAPEFRUIT (Bamboo Ridge 2013). She teaches writing and literature at Kapi‘olani Community College. Find out more about her books at www.bambooridge.com.
Smoke
by Teal Takayama
The night after his death
I went to bed in silence,
more aware of my body,
aware of every step and movement.
I could feel the action in every
solemn joint. It continued that way
for a while, I felt everything
and it was exhausting.
I’d think of that one time when
we were on the back steps,
another cold night. We were
smoking and watching the smoke
drift away above the bushes,
breathing and watching our breath fade.
Then we’d watch it all, the transient white
separating until it disappeared out
of the range of the weak streetlight.
“The way you can tell the difference,” he said,
“is that breath disappears in two seconds.”
He was right, and so for the rest of the time
I would exhale the condensation
and count it, one, two,
gone. Meanwhile he watched,
the smoke from his cigarette carried
high. Now I think about you every time
I see my breath.
I never felt as strongly as you did,
never understood what you were thinking about
when you just watched.
Years later I still don’t know, I’m still
counting breaths while you watch, somewhere,
smoking. I can see your smoke still rising
into the night, past the bushes,
past the trees, higher. Until
it has disappeared out of the light,
out of the range of my vision.
Until it is just the smoke,
separating from my breath,
rising higher, higher,
one, two, gone.
Teal Takayama is from Pearl City, Hawaiʻi. She studied writing under Lois Ann Yamanaka and attended Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. She currently works on federal policy as a legislative assistant in Washington, D.C.
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