i captured a sliver of the moon
on the tip of my tongue
a tiny thousand fireflies,
between steamy puffs
of burning lungs,
a shimmering.
i stood alone, long—
a still silhouette
under a crying streetlight,
a witness to the dying of the stars,
to the rebirth of my own body,
to coming alive again.
~j. avellana hongo, 2020
My mother lived in the waters here, Chocolate brown as she could be On the edge of Public's Beach She grew up in a caretaker's cottage,
The youngest, naughtiest, spoiledest of four
Her stories live with me now, My gichan with his wooden cigar boxes stuffed with the day's earnings My baban busy at the concession stand, the Mae West of her time with smooth porcelain skin even into her 90's going for her early morning swims in her strand of pearls, Jackie O sunglasses
and a wide brimmed hat.
Images of my mother swimming in the night
Panties glowing in moonlight
threatened with the belt for refusing to come in--
I imagine she refuses still
flashing her willful stubbornness, sticking out her tongue
she cried remembering how her brother offered to take her spankings for her
remembering how the water was her best friend,
remembering her papa,
and the beachboys giving her a wicked nickname
she laughed as she confessed it
remembering the sweetness like it was yesterday,
remembering.
-j. a. hongo
17,807 days
how many times is too many times to begin again? who is the accountant keeping track of my failures? is there really a tally of shame, like a prisoner's calendar on a brick wall somewhere?
get over yourself. no.
so then, you can begin again however many times you want,
how. ever. many. times. it. takes,
did you hear me?
a thousand times a day if you must.
so will you?
as of today i have been breathing for 17,807 days and i have been alive for a scant part of those days, and i want more—
more life in my days, more depth, more time, more goodness, starting with this mulligan,
and then— ten thousand more.
-j. a. hongo