Wahine On The Moon

The sky is my soft blue cave, the wall of the cosmos tickling my back. I am lucky; my home is alive. The moon breathes, deeply, blowing my black hair across its dusty surface, flickering and licking into empty space.

I look down on my islands, green mountains fading into red dirt valleys, turning into rocky beaches, whispering away into the sea, where sharks slide smoothly like gray staring spirits.

I hold my baby in my arms; he sleeps, breathing gently. We have quiet hearts, and the music of the Universe lulls us easily to sleep. I wipe the moon dust from my eyes, and slide gently over the curve of the moon. First one toe, then the other, I test the black throbbing space. It’s the perfect temperature, and I bend my knees and leap toward earth, my large brown body bare, my baby laughing on   This is his favorite part.

my hip.

The sun has set on my islands, and I glide above them, whisking salty sea spray and plumeria in front of me. I touch down on a pebbly golden beach and a couple walks slowly by. I quickly call upon my powers and in a second I am a shaft of moonlight on the ocean, my nakedness and my baby’s innocence hidden from them. We drift along the surface, singing, breathing in the smell of the wide Pacific, of the reef, of a smoky fire burning on the beach. Dripping wet now, my hair clinging to my ankles and my baby tucked into my arms, we follow the sweet pickings of an ukulele to a small backyard.

There’s a wooden house that wanders and sags, breadfruit trees and mango trees spreading their arms, laden with white glowing lights. Legs are crossed, keiki half asleep on skirted laps, manly dirty feet propped on tables and chairs and rusted car fenders. The music starts as ukuleles join their voices, sweet and hard, peppering the night air. A thick papery voice joins in, producing a melody as juicy as the young coconut jelly. The keiki wake up, the teenagers drift outside from the kitchen, and leaving my baby safe in the branches of a mango tree, I dance the hula, letting the rhythm of the islands guide my movements. Soon I am joined by the black haired brown skinned doe-eyed children. They twirl and play around my legs, and then the young people come and brush against my skin and they tremble at my coolness, making them dance that much harder. Then the elders join me, and they smile and touch my hair. They have been dancing with me many years.

When I am beaded with silver sweat, I take my baby and we go to the mountains and valleys. Kigns and queens whisper here, caught in the ancient wet dampness and delicate flowers and whisking rivers and jagged falling cliffs. Drums echo here, bouncing off the weeping faces of the mountains, lurking in the valleys, making the trees shake and sway. The stomping of my brothers’ feet, their labored breathing, reminds me of wars past, and I watch with sadness as they run by me, their hearts aching, eyes dying with anger. I long to hold them in my arms, but they will not have it.

I kiss the mountains and the sea goodnight, as my hair drags through the valley and over the houses of my people. I bend my knees and jump toward the white coin moon. My hair flings water as I glide home, still humming, my baby’s pudgy hands kneading my chest, his black silky hair on my shoulder.

I settle cross-legged on the moon and tuck the clouds around my legs as my baby giggles in my arms so powerfully that waves are pushed across the ocean floor. I run my hands through my hair and rain spills down on taro fields and quiet wooden lanais. I pick up my ukulele: the body is pockmarked black lava rock, the strings are moonlight on the sea, and it is inlaid with thick white pearls. I begin to play and I open my mouth to sing of glory, as an island night is born.