By your hand

 

for Deon

I peer at the ridges of your palm

rested along the crevice of mine,

while tracing your jagged vasculature

with a delicate press of my finger,

and I explore every uneven wrinkle,

every pronounced callus, every rounded

mole like it is the hilly, stone-ridden

backyard of my childhood home in Mongmong.

I know this place. I have been here

before. I read the swirls inscribed

into your firm dark skin, sound out

each node and connecting branch,

sew syllables into words that spell

out gima’: home.

I raise your hand transposed against

the evening sky, clear of clouds, and I

can find the constellations within you.

Did you know our forefathers did this at sea—

placed their arm to the heavens to translate

the stars? Master navigators of the open ocean,

yet you, my love, are more than a map; I dare

not fold nor decipher your complexity. You

are the beloved, longed-for destination at the end

of the journey, the place that our ancestors craved

return, the reason for the expedition—refuge,

promise, hope. You are home.

Haʻåni Lucia Falo San Nicolas