Fissured

In Puna 
 there’s choice in the break, 
choice to crack, 
choice to expose, 
choice to pour forth 
molten memories. 
 Papa cracks in Puna, 
readjusts, stretches, 
bears down, 
her fissured surfaces 
birthing. 
 There’s agency in the choosing, 
power to decide, 
power to act, 
power to control 
procreation, 

 a right all women should have. 

At Pōhakuloa 

there’s no choice in the violence, 
no choice in being cracked, 
no choice in being exposed, 
no choice but to survive 
the penetration. 
 Papa is cracked at Pōhakuloa 
forced, beaten, 
she bears down, 
her fissured surfaces 
crying. 

There’s abuse in the denial, 
denying sanctity, 
denying voice, 
denying peace 
in creation, 

an ache no woman should ever feel. 

In me 

my heart cracks halfway between 
Puna and Pōhakuloa 

between a celebration of life 
and a plea to save it 
 
between fiery reverence  
and all-consuming rage 

between being fissured 
and choosing to tear myself apart 

praying for the calm.

 I wrote this poem reflecting on a few things: RIMPAC and destruction, creation and birth in Puna, women and the right to choose what we do with our bodies. Though written in 2018, it's all so relevant now.