Poem by

KATHLEEN HELLEN

Only the currents, the stars to guide us

These islands from the smallest to largest. The order

of the regions. The crust and plates that neighbor

not submerged—one—Japanese? flipping through the data

on her cell—another, regarded differently, passing as

—Korean? The other—Chinese? A mother with her black

hair splashing to her waist, beside a white man twice her age,

saluting with a mai tai as the ukulele strums “County Roads”

—and everyone at Table 54 tonight, a traveler. No discrete

landness. No one asking at the luau who will plant the taro.

Pound the bark.