The House on Koamoko Drive

in the front yard, the tree-house
my father built with his tired
hands, the door creaky &
a missing floorboard here or there.
i remember watching as he fell
from the fifth step of the ladder,
& my mother’s laughter
while she helped him get up off the ground.
in the backyard, a garden
full of things that were growing:
pineapple & taro & sweet potato.
the banana & cane spiders
we grew up with & the caterpillars
who carefully cocooned themselves to sleep
under the watchful eyes of my brother & i.
my bedroom at the top of the stairs
with the golden flowers growing
along the wall. when i came home
from the hospital, they carried me,
carefully, to this room. i was so small then,
i fit in the palms of my mother’s nervous hands
& she was afraid i might break at the slightest inconvenience.
the kitchen where my grandfather & his buddies
would share the stories of their days
over cigarettes & poi,
confusing memory for myth.

By Michelle DeLouise