In the beginning 

You — a star that governed the night sky — 

were not made from the dust on this earth.  

Flower-laden limbs stretched out beneath 

the growing mountain where I became your motherland 

when evening passed 

In the beginning 

You — a covenant with Abram — 

were not made in my likeness but with my likeness. 

Were you confused when my tongue split 

in t(w)o fluent and broken ‘til colonial verses faded? 

and morning came 

In the beginning 

You — clothed in strength — 

were not made from bone of man that traversed 

these drowning soils first. See these hands? They expanded 

like yeast, broke bread with salt-water memories 

‘til evening passed 

In the beginning 

You — a blossoming heilala through all seasons — 

inhaled life through your nostrils. Did you hear me cry?  

When I cussed the serpent in the ground and your sanctuary  

was pounded with a mallet, like bark off a mulberry tree 

and morning came 

Feel my breath?  

As it held no more than sorrowful  

vowels stretched out like a long injury.  

And my fullness was torn as I heard the  

symphonies of past prophecies.  

You — wrapped in tapa — 

were made flesh of my flesh, not Adam’s  

and I thanked Eve for my fruit 

and it was done.