Sample Poems by Lehua Taitano
Letter From an Island
(Maria Flores to Shelton Family, 1982.)
I hope you are all fine
as for us we are
you ought to know how
I fill of writing
I'm not that good so please
excuse me I just make
this cookies for my girl
to remember the old lady
I think the baby cant
try it I have a gift and
her m__ one m____
and I've other for Leah
and the shoes for Lehua
and the blouse I've buy
lady the mama is just
are 500 the blouse is 6 or
I hope you all like it
please write to me if you
recived it did you recived
the one that Lanie mail it
I ask Lanie and she said
she just mail it the other
day I want to thank you
for the meat
it really good
M___ give me a ring
but it fit on my small
don't tell her
that I'm giving you something
tell M___ if she want me
to come I'm ready
send my ticket
A Love Letter to the Chamoru People in the Twenty-first Century
I will begin this in the middle, since all of my letters have always been
to you, even if you haven't realized it. Go back and look. You'll see. All
of my imaginings, my histories, my deaths and rebirths, my love and
heartbreak. All of my words. My windblown hair, my lemon-sticky wrists. My
fishbones, slings, feathers and offerings. My twig fires and heaped mounds
of husks. My paint-dipped elbows and muddy feet. The bowers I weave into a
home-scented bowl that might call you to me. The way I can sometimes chant
down the sea and coax a wave to carry my heart to you. The salt on my
thighs, the clutch of shells I carry in my deepest pockets. They are
always for you. Addressed to you. So you'll understand, I hope, if I pick
up where we last left off, which is always at horizon.
Who but a horizon so keenly feels how we are kept at each other's
Because much more than wind carries so many of us away from our islands.
Because we are made to consider our oceans as walls. Because we fumble the
jar lid of tongues we've been made to bury. Because our sails have been
burned. Because our grandmothers have been raped and worse. Because the
bones of our beloved are being paved over and over with layers of poison
and dollars that bear faces not our own.
Because the news tells us who we are not. Because our families are
separated. Because distance means we cannot always conjure the scent of
our auntie's cheek. Because we are visited by our ancestors in dreams.
Because we are visited by our ancestors in waking life. Because our nieces
and nephews struggle to remember the last time we visited.
Because two more of our sons and daughters have enlisted. Because their
enlistment might return them home whole or in pieces or not at all.
Because diabetes has taken another pair of our eyes. Because we cannot
tread on pieces of our own land without clearance. Because we keep words
like clearance and deployment and strategic and stationed in the bowl with
our keys by the front door. Because we can count to a thousand in Spanish.
Because we can count to the apocalypse in English.
Because our crow song has vanished. Because our trees are blighted.
Because our reefs are targets. Because we are always in the path of
military maneuvers. Because I must write this to you in English.
Because we are trending. Because our faces are lit up with the glow of
emojis each shedding a single tear . Because our petitions do not go
viral. Because Cara only half jokes about investing in bunker supplies.
Because Michael is being fitted with a lapel mic for the twentieth time
today. Because Clarissa splits herself open to talk story about Litekyan.
Because Desiree is trying to ignore the planes flying overhead. Because
Dakot-ta is not even going to talk about anything but peace. Because Ned
wants us to share with the world. Because Arielle is still trying to sell
her atulai. Because Craig debates the value of visibility. Because our
non-Chamoru friends text us to say what a shame but can they also get that
Because we are shouting into the Pacific. Because our voices are choked in
the fumes of B-1 bombers.
Because I could not sleep.
Because I could not eat.
Because I do not want to get my mind off things, I am writing to you.
I close my eyes against the morning sun in my garden-where I reach out to
you across space and time-and I hear you. I hear you laughing and loving
and crying. In despair and resistance. In anguish and abhorrence. What's
more, I feel you. The salt in our blood carries droplets of the ocean. No
matter where we are, inside us is a liquid web connecting our beating
I am quiet so I can perceive your tugs, the delicate density of your
And I want you to know that I am always scared, but I am always hopeful.
Because I can feel you, I can feel our collective fear. We are proud, so
we sometimes deny fear, keep it hidden like a lozenge under the tongue. We
are resilient, so we know that it will dissolve. And when it does, we will
still be here, tending our plants, casting our nets, shaping our canoes,
writing our bodies into existence.
I am writing to you, ma~ne'lu, aunties, uncles, nenis, cousins, kin and
all our saina.
I am writing to tell you that I see you. I hear you. I feel you. I love
you. You matter.
I hope this letter finds you.
Until we can gaze together upon a horizon full of sails,
Create a sibling, a counterpart to your shale-flaked centerself, a
blood-bound projection to visit you upon the lonely scree.
My brother says he is not a writer.
This means he writes for no one
but himself then burns the pages
with a kitchen match.
Sometimes, he writes for me.
This is a lie.
Onetime, he wrote for me.
The last blizzard he stretched to me,
astride two wheels laden with burro bundles-
blankets and jerky.
There's wind in South Dakota, he said. Lots of it.
Then he said, Badlands. They should name it
When he limped to my doorstep,
Montana November was glassed in
a lined notebook, belly warm.
I read with stomach sight.
press closed clicking sap
on a pine limb
felt my head on a pole
with the moon in the river
stareless eyes starless
eyes cast like die
My heart tapped the glass. Our cadence, I said.
Yours and mine.
He fashioned his arms just so and said,
If you'll remember,
I used to cradle you for sixty spins
around the clockface.
A single minute less,
and you'd whimper awake.
A Walnut Tree
In the yard the green husks are sign enough. Deeper, an ink fouled black
and maybe a white worm. Never walnuts. The kind mounded in wooden bowls.
The silver claw bought special atop the scalloped white plate beside.
Other families' tables. Where the chairs are cushioned and enough. Not so
yours, where the fork scrape means you know nothing of respect. This is
why you will never learn to be good.