In the palm-shade of Pearl Harbor, with the
beach grass between my toes, which were shaped like
small pink snail shells, with plumeria in
my nose, I would romp about, a toe-head,
Menehunes’ hominid, a mess of
white-blond curls and naked, bare-bum shaking
at the world. And then, when we had to be
human, and get all mumued cotton blue,
I was my mother’s ankle barnacle,
latched on, looking at our shoes, his slick-shined
patent leather, giving off an airman’s
sweat, her in her comfy walking thongs, me
stuffed inside two tortures, all us in our Sunday Best.
When she told me she was pregnant with a
second hominid, the Menehunes
laughed a rainbow that was carried on the
wind. They teleported me a sister,
a coconut cracked upon my head and out
she popped, dried lava eyes, her hair a flaming Pele red.
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. She believes in densely-packed poems, preferring them to be mouthfuls when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves water-side living. She currently lives in Edgewater, Maryland with her wife. Her published poems can be found in Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine and Spillwords Press.