The Slow Way Home

We took the slow way home,

drove beside fields and through

faded small towns. An Amish family

passed in horse drawn buggy. A white

bull mounted a cow. Giant windmills

turned for miles. Black cloud masses

of the sort that conjure a god shuddered

rain and light. We felt fed. How lush

the space between my parentheses,

my cold steel brackets of there and here.

Such a pungent smell rises from the wet

fertile soil on the slow way home,

beside the fields and through the faded

small towns.

from Across Borders, An International Literary Annual, The Work Issue

The Crack Seed Store

For a haole girl from Punahou, the sei moi store

at Varsity and Beretania was a temple to the exotic.

Massive glass jars lined the shelves of a small room

with dirty floors, dim lights, and strange, vaguely fishy smells.

I knew what filled the li hing mui and mango jars,

could distinguish by sight the salty ginger from the sweet,

the dry lemon peel from the wet, but those jars on the top tier

with their green liquids and neon red floating balls scared me,

as did the owner when she scolded, no open jars.

Each visit the same dilemmas.

Choose the familiar or try something new?

Choose what tastes best—crunchy shredded mango,

or what lasts longest—red salted ginger?

Choose selfishly—giant li hing mui plum,

or for maximum playground sharing—shredded lemon peel?

Or be the pragmatist, take a little of each,

never quite satisfied.

I choose over and over, never sure, even when

the pickled mango touches my watering tongue.

Would crack seed plum have been sweeter

and worth all the work?

Years ago they closed the store, sold off the jars,

bulldozed the building.

The woman still stands before me, scoop in hand,

asking, which one you want?

from Bloodroot Literary Magazine 2012