An Elegy for Lahaina
As we watch the sun rise and we watch our son play
I’m scared to death wondering what we’re going to say
when he asks us one day
why.
Why there are always bullets and bombs galore
why there is always money for war and war
why there is always money to kill
why there is always money for rich men
to get richer and richer still
filling their pockets as war stocks follow rockets
sky high, but why oh why
does such a wealthy nation
have to rely on donations when disaster strikes
and why does MECO always have rate hikes
if they can’t fix old poles
and why does it take them hours and hours and hours and hours
and hours and hours and hours
to cut the power after lines go down
and why do we have sirens if they’re not going to make a sound
in the precious moments they’re needed most
and why did the children of the missionaries
dry out the wetlands that once lined the coast
so they could sell sugar to sweeten the theft
and why do they keep taking and taking and taking and taking
until there’s nothing left
until a whole town is turned to ash
and an occupied nation is bereft
and there’s microplastic in the sand
and UXO* throughout the land
and naval sewage in the Harbor
and fuel oil leaching in the water
and native sons and native daughters
have little options but to flee
as their ʻaina is used and abused
by the military
war-drumming for World War 3
and by the extractive tourist industry
turning a caricature of their culture into a commodity
and more and more and more and more
people who look like me
buy home number two or home number three
so they can visit these million dollar homes once or twice annually
to spend a few weeks by the sea
and make a killing the rest of the year from Airbnb
why must tourists fly to an island still counting the dead
why can’t they go somewhere like Florida instead
or better yet, donate just some of their bread
to ensure that survivors all have their needs met
without jumping into an ocean of debt.…
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