My father remembers ancient banyan trees.
He sees ghosts in the tall temple grass,
smells rain on abandoned sugar cane.
He watches the ocean and waits.

Lately, he sees a tall ship in Honolulu Harbor,
silent and crewless, bobbing with the waves,
and my father thinks it is
there for him.

Listen, I tell him, that ship is all in your mind
but he counters, You see it too
and it’s true, I see it, pale and shifting
like Molokai sands.

My father remembers battleships in flames
and torpedoes flying over the Koolau.
He sees a young girl pin a hibiscus
behind her left ear
as she descends the stairs.

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Trisha's favorite places to publish poems are Poetry Circle, Right Hand Pointing, Blast Furnace Press, Off the Coast, Eunoia and the late Seattle Poetry Review. She divides her time between Seattle and Hawaii. Right Hand Pointing will publish a chapbook of her short poems in December 2017.

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