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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Trish Saunders is a former journalist & content manager who divides her time between Seattle and Honolulu, and (in her imagination, on the shores of Crescent Lake). She's published in Right Hand Pointing, Off The Coast, Seattle Review, Gnarled Oak, Eunoia, Silver Birch Press, and Blast Furnace Press.

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