By Erica Naone (LadyFebruary@yahoo.com)
Date: 30 June 1999

Between Roots

Aristotle looks at trees as indecent people, 
Mouths gaping into the ground, sucking up dark scents,
Feet pointing accusingly at the sun, reproducing in front of God and everybody.

My shirt today is lowcut enough to show off tree-like patterns in my veins,
Blooming out from collarbone and sternum,
But I can't tell the difference between roots and leaves.

I am proud to be a woman, proud to be "of the blood,"
But sometimes I wonder if that blood matters anymore than the brand of spaghetti sauce I buy,
Which then pools out from a heap of murder victim noodles.

There's a kind of shame to loving you, when I think in terms of blood,
A shame to be ashamed of, but there's more than that.
"My people" and "your people" exist no matter what,
And I imagine my people imagine I've gone over to the enemy, loving you.

I think of my blood in ever-diminishing fractions of children's children
And I'm sorry for them that they won't have words consisting only of vowels
Or middle names relating to aumakua, sent in dreams to village elders.

It's my own oblivion I'm seeing, down the line, my people's oblivion,
And a lot of it's to do with loving you.
I'm ashamed to know Aristotle, sometimes, when I don't know many stories of my people,
When I don't know the names of kahunas, when I don't speak my own language.

I tell myself a drop of oil colors gallons of water, that my blood will last
Longer than my memory will.  And my people and your people will be our people,
And our skins will shade many ways, like trees,
And maybe we'll plant our roots in the ground where they belong,
And grow more leaves.

I don't think "we shall overcome" in any other way than loving you.