Pow-Wow at Thomas Square

By DELAINA THOMAS

Honolulu

 

I walk to the park
drummers sit in a circle under a white tent
they have drifted this far way on pacific waves
long feathers tucked behind their ears
they sweat in soft fringed hides
their faces lean and dark

I walk past a stall of frybread and smoked meat
to a table of pawn jewelry
a hunk of turquoise dappled with green
is set in a cuff of old silver engraved
with swastikas and stars
I wonder if it was gambled away 
I say to no one in particular
it would look nice on you I hear and look up
at the vendor older and handsome 
two bear claws at his collarbone

I don’t want to wear someone else’s heartache 
I have enough of my own I say 
he asks what tribe I am
my people are from an island I’ve never been to 
I say as I walk away

 

Delaina Thomas born and raised in Hawaiʻi, is a lifelong activist of Asian descent. Her writing has focused on two oppressed matriarchal cultures: the Hawaiian and the Uchinanchu. She researches and cultivates endangered endemic Hawaiian plants. Delaina is a certified teacher of Transcendental Meditation and has an MFA in creative writing from UC Irvine. Her work has appeared in Hawaiʻi Review, The Hudson Review, The Missouri Review, The Asian Pacific American Journal, Bamboo Ridge, and other publications.

[Purchase Issue 20 here.]

Pow-Wow at Thomas Square

Related Posts

Image of an orange cupped in a hand

May 2023 Poetry Feature: New Poems by Our Contributors

TIMOTHY DONNELLY
Thorn-blossom! Tender thing, prone to solitude / like yours truly, don’t get it twisted if I reach out my hand— / it isn’t to pluck you, who are my beacon down this path, but a gesture / of acknowledgment common among my kind. / When the lukewarm breezes nod off

Red Lanterns in Night Sky

On Wariness

MYRONN HARDY
There is rhythm on the pavement. / There is rhythm in small / apartment rooms. / I’m over slicing tomatoes. / I’m over drinking wine. / I’m performing as not to be / deformed     as not / to show what I shouldn’t. / I don’t want to feel everything.

Image of two blank canvases on a white wall

Nina and Frida Enter the Chat

FELICE BELLE
these biddies with their deadbolt backs/ take naps / while i construct/ canvas from corset cast / art does not wait until you are well / what they did not understand—the training was classical / chopin, motherfuckers/ carry on like she some backwater bluesy / least common denominator