a colonizer's journal entry

I hate the smell of Hawaii

of musty borrowed furniture

sour laundry

rotting wood around the windows

sweat-crusted sheets

even my own skin—savory for some reason.

I hate how the salty air breathes over everything

leaving behind dust clumps,

rust.

Inviting in cockroaches, 

ants. 

The woman at the local store knows

this island was built for her

by volcano and ash

as she glares at my purchase of Cheetos and milk.

The mynah bird knows

as he lands on our window 

only to look at his reflection;

and nest in the power lines.

Teddy said,

"I left my footprints in Utah

in the snow."

We'll find them,

I said, 

pushing his hair off his forehead,

watching it fold back slowly

like sleeping grass.