i have an excess of myself
that i am trying to pull out
by the tooth
- deluged
that i am trying to pull out
by the tooth
- deluged
i used to dream of peonies
in antebellum
ante
(a poverty of you,
bellum
catering to the savagery of the body)
in the gorge where we met
and laid our worries to sea
garnered affections like
shucked shells --
pearlescent
where i kissed each
fingertip on your left hand
and felt my heart
hardening like the
stones of ithaca
- odyssey
in antebellum
ante
(a poverty of you,
bellum
catering to the savagery of the body)
in the gorge where we met
and laid our worries to sea
garnered affections like
shucked shells --
pearlescent
where i kissed each
fingertip on your left hand
and felt my heart
hardening like the
stones of ithaca
- odyssey
On Tragedy
The first time I saw my husband’s ship up close was the day he left. We were at a farewell picnic at the Tucson’s homeport, standing far off to the side and away from the other sailors. Young and still in love, we defaulted to our privacy. He did not say anything about her to me, still lost in his own denial. Half engulfed by the sea, black and looming, the waves shifted around her weight. At the time, I think I was afraid of what she could be capable of. He told me once that she was equipped with an armory of missiles and torpedoes. I saw one of the boys who worked with the weaponry there. He was no more than twenty. But most of all, I think I was afraid of what she could do to my husband and the sailors that lived within her. It’d be a six month mission. Six months time that she would house those boys and the men that presided over them. I thought of her cold hull, an underbelly filled with shrapnel, the potential to cave in on herself. I looked away. Some sailors call their ships beautiful. Majestic, even. Her shadow cast hard against the pier, my husband’s hand clasped around my wrist - daunting, that’s the word I’d use.
❖
I don’t remember if it was when we were house hunting or once we had already settled on the island, but I do remember sitting in the passenger seat of our car. My husband was driving. From the window you could see her, or rather, what was left of her and what they built in her place. The Arizona, bone-white and blinding under the sun. He said that we should go visit her sometime.
She’s still bleeding, to this day, did you know? He asked, glancing at me before turning his attention back to the road. She’ll bleed out until the last of her crew are laid to rest, and then she’ll finally be able to rest as well.
No, I didn’t. And I told him that, turning my head to look at her as we drove past. But I did know that the prospect was awfully poetic, so I told him that too.
Yeah. I guess, he said in response. And then we fell into a deep silence - one that didn’t last more than a few seconds before one of us quipped about something mundane, like what’s for dinner? Or do you think it’ll rain? But it was deep as in profound, palpable. She’s still bleeding to this day. She. Like a mother weeping. Bled out, body hollow. More than a thousand of her men died that day in a span of an hour or two. When their scalded bodies were thrown into the ocean she sunk to the seafloor with black tears, cradling them. A wounded ship.
I watched my husband grip the wheel, his jaw set as he angled against a curve in the road.
❖
At not even 8 o’clock in the morning on December 7th, 1941 a barrage of attacks was launched on the US naval base at Pearl Harbor. At the heart of the invasion was Ford Island. Set in the center of Pearl Harbor, the islet endured raids from aerial fighters, carrier bombers, and torpedo bombers. The island lit in flames as sailors scrambled to their positions, compromised by the surprise attack, they had nothing left to do but shoot and hope.
In all, 2,403 servicemen died. 1,278 others were wounded. Countless US battleships, cruisers, and aircraft were destroyed by the invasion.
It was a Sunday. The US entered the second World War the following day.
❖
Our neighbor at the end of the street owns three expensive hummer Jeeps. I see him often laboring over those cars, his weekends spent with soap and suds. His kids flit around in tiny bathing suits, helping but not really helping in the manner that children do. There are two neighborhood cats which I have affectionately named Peebles and Morrow. I feed them often and humor the children that try to pet them. Once, when my husband and I went on a midsummer walk, we decided to count all the wreaths in the neighborhood. Of the 144 homes on our street, there were nearly 35 doors that had a wreath stuck to it. We giggled over the gaudiness of it all and clung closer to each other in the sticky late-afternoon. At the park behind our house you can hear children screaming until dusk, their tiny feet stamping against the loam. I baked cookies for our next door neighbors and she sent back a thank you card. She has two boys that wrap their arms around my legs for goodbye hugs. Our other neighbors, in their southern polite (you could tell by their accents), offered to lend us their lawnmower if ever we needed it. Mailmen come dressed in khaki and forget to ring the doorbell when they leave packages at the foot of the door. Hey, my husband yells up the stairs as he tracks dirt from his boots into the house. I’m home. He strips off his blouse and leaves his uniform crumpled on the floor. Our empty house fills with every little mess he leaves behind, coins on the counter, lint from his pockets. He picks up one of our cats as he ascends the steps, placing a kiss on her cheek and then mine too. What’s for dinner?
❖
The rebirth of Ford Island following the Pearl Harbor attack began in the mid 90’s with the construction of Admiral Clarey Bridge. Plans included building more than 500 homes for Navy families, a lodge, and a child-development center. Speckled throughout the islet are residential neighborhoods, a mini-mart, hangars, civilian research centers, a museum, and military training complexes. In the very least, they had let the ash quell into dirt before they started building on it.
❖
My house is lost in a cluster of cookie-cutter buildings reminiscent of mainland suburbia. Flags waving in the air, tricycles left on the sidewalk. I get my mail and think more of whether or not it’ll rain than I do of the men who fell on this soil. I walk over the ground but don’t feel the weight of their footsteps. I know the meaning of home but not of anything else. My home is home, is here. The only tragedy that’s happened to me on this island was saying goodbye to my husband as he slung his sea bag over his shoulders.
In early September they lined the length of the bridge and then some down the road with the boots of servicemen who have died in combat since 9/11. The trail of boots stretched for at least two miles. Another memorial, another reminder. My eyes burned as I drove home. This time my car was empty, my house too. Too clean, too quiet. A fire starts in my chest, real and profound. I feel guilty sometimes, crying over one soul and forgetting the other 2,403 quivering on the shore. I have since lost the meaning of sanctity. My house shudders late at night as a reminder, but I’ve had enough of reminders. My bed is cold and I’ve nothing left to pick up from the ground but tendrils of melancholy. What is half a year to an eternity? And what makes a tragedy a tragedy? How many people die or how much you miss someone after they’re gone? I think about all those boots and all those tears, heavy and black, all the coins rattling on the counter.
The first time I saw my husband’s ship up close was the day he left. We were at a farewell picnic at the Tucson’s homeport, standing far off to the side and away from the other sailors. Young and still in love, we defaulted to our privacy. He did not say anything about her to me, still lost in his own denial. Half engulfed by the sea, black and looming, the waves shifted around her weight. At the time, I think I was afraid of what she could be capable of. He told me once that she was equipped with an armory of missiles and torpedoes. I saw one of the boys who worked with the weaponry there. He was no more than twenty. But most of all, I think I was afraid of what she could do to my husband and the sailors that lived within her. It’d be a six month mission. Six months time that she would house those boys and the men that presided over them. I thought of her cold hull, an underbelly filled with shrapnel, the potential to cave in on herself. I looked away. Some sailors call their ships beautiful. Majestic, even. Her shadow cast hard against the pier, my husband’s hand clasped around my wrist - daunting, that’s the word I’d use.
❖
I don’t remember if it was when we were house hunting or once we had already settled on the island, but I do remember sitting in the passenger seat of our car. My husband was driving. From the window you could see her, or rather, what was left of her and what they built in her place. The Arizona, bone-white and blinding under the sun. He said that we should go visit her sometime.
She’s still bleeding, to this day, did you know? He asked, glancing at me before turning his attention back to the road. She’ll bleed out until the last of her crew are laid to rest, and then she’ll finally be able to rest as well.
No, I didn’t. And I told him that, turning my head to look at her as we drove past. But I did know that the prospect was awfully poetic, so I told him that too.
Yeah. I guess, he said in response. And then we fell into a deep silence - one that didn’t last more than a few seconds before one of us quipped about something mundane, like what’s for dinner? Or do you think it’ll rain? But it was deep as in profound, palpable. She’s still bleeding to this day. She. Like a mother weeping. Bled out, body hollow. More than a thousand of her men died that day in a span of an hour or two. When their scalded bodies were thrown into the ocean she sunk to the seafloor with black tears, cradling them. A wounded ship.
I watched my husband grip the wheel, his jaw set as he angled against a curve in the road.
❖
At not even 8 o’clock in the morning on December 7th, 1941 a barrage of attacks was launched on the US naval base at Pearl Harbor. At the heart of the invasion was Ford Island. Set in the center of Pearl Harbor, the islet endured raids from aerial fighters, carrier bombers, and torpedo bombers. The island lit in flames as sailors scrambled to their positions, compromised by the surprise attack, they had nothing left to do but shoot and hope.
In all, 2,403 servicemen died. 1,278 others were wounded. Countless US battleships, cruisers, and aircraft were destroyed by the invasion.
It was a Sunday. The US entered the second World War the following day.
❖
Our neighbor at the end of the street owns three expensive hummer Jeeps. I see him often laboring over those cars, his weekends spent with soap and suds. His kids flit around in tiny bathing suits, helping but not really helping in the manner that children do. There are two neighborhood cats which I have affectionately named Peebles and Morrow. I feed them often and humor the children that try to pet them. Once, when my husband and I went on a midsummer walk, we decided to count all the wreaths in the neighborhood. Of the 144 homes on our street, there were nearly 35 doors that had a wreath stuck to it. We giggled over the gaudiness of it all and clung closer to each other in the sticky late-afternoon. At the park behind our house you can hear children screaming until dusk, their tiny feet stamping against the loam. I baked cookies for our next door neighbors and she sent back a thank you card. She has two boys that wrap their arms around my legs for goodbye hugs. Our other neighbors, in their southern polite (you could tell by their accents), offered to lend us their lawnmower if ever we needed it. Mailmen come dressed in khaki and forget to ring the doorbell when they leave packages at the foot of the door. Hey, my husband yells up the stairs as he tracks dirt from his boots into the house. I’m home. He strips off his blouse and leaves his uniform crumpled on the floor. Our empty house fills with every little mess he leaves behind, coins on the counter, lint from his pockets. He picks up one of our cats as he ascends the steps, placing a kiss on her cheek and then mine too. What’s for dinner?
❖
The rebirth of Ford Island following the Pearl Harbor attack began in the mid 90’s with the construction of Admiral Clarey Bridge. Plans included building more than 500 homes for Navy families, a lodge, and a child-development center. Speckled throughout the islet are residential neighborhoods, a mini-mart, hangars, civilian research centers, a museum, and military training complexes. In the very least, they had let the ash quell into dirt before they started building on it.
❖
My house is lost in a cluster of cookie-cutter buildings reminiscent of mainland suburbia. Flags waving in the air, tricycles left on the sidewalk. I get my mail and think more of whether or not it’ll rain than I do of the men who fell on this soil. I walk over the ground but don’t feel the weight of their footsteps. I know the meaning of home but not of anything else. My home is home, is here. The only tragedy that’s happened to me on this island was saying goodbye to my husband as he slung his sea bag over his shoulders.
In early September they lined the length of the bridge and then some down the road with the boots of servicemen who have died in combat since 9/11. The trail of boots stretched for at least two miles. Another memorial, another reminder. My eyes burned as I drove home. This time my car was empty, my house too. Too clean, too quiet. A fire starts in my chest, real and profound. I feel guilty sometimes, crying over one soul and forgetting the other 2,403 quivering on the shore. I have since lost the meaning of sanctity. My house shudders late at night as a reminder, but I’ve had enough of reminders. My bed is cold and I’ve nothing left to pick up from the ground but tendrils of melancholy. What is half a year to an eternity? And what makes a tragedy a tragedy? How many people die or how much you miss someone after they’re gone? I think about all those boots and all those tears, heavy and black, all the coins rattling on the counter.