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.
