(Ancient Hawaiian — “breath of life…)
I.
In the Western World men erected statues
in materials and forms so muscled and marbled
they chilled the chambers wherein they stood
For centuries, no paintings were hung
of a laughing Jesus
Father’s slapped small boys for weeping,
slapped them again and again
until their bodies became armored and dull
On desolate football fields coaches screamed
in one hundred degree heat for them
to breathe through their nostrils
until they dropped into the gravel and dirt
Drill sergeants shouted directly into their ears,
commanded them to stand tall, harden their asses,
be men, kill without mercy
They learned to hold their breath just before they fired,
to swallow the urge to vomit standing over gutted bodies,
inhale and hold it, look but not see, count to five
As men, they handed other men a fist,
both greeting and warning,
tested the gripping power of the other for a flaw
In barber shops, along wooden bars in dark taverns
of underarm stench and rancid breath,
they hoarded what they felt, never showed a hand,
firmed their jaws, didn’t flinch, never let a smile
grow too wide, a laugh too loud
In board rooms across from Wall Street warlords
who drew their aces from below,
they learned to bluff, wait for a wild card,
grab the dirty cash and run
II.
The ones who dare
wake one morning on a seashore
to an empty beach house,
the woman gone during the night
with the car, the rest
The sands are barren; the water quiet
On impulse they dive deep and long,
madly chase boldly colored fish
this way, that way,
hoping for an answer
to a question they can’t recall
They find the ocean has no words —
that fish will always be silent —
stop thrashing, tear away their masks
and laugh foolishly like small boys
bobbing in the sea