by Catherine Keefe

A boy stands in the holding pen
of Disneyland's Tiki Room, tries

to tell Mother truth, but she
won't stop looking at her phone even

when he beats rhythm on her knee,
a banana leaf slapping sand MA-ma,

MA-ma. Everyone drove canoes
and ate pineapples. There was rain

and drums and I wish I lived back
then. I bend my knees to meet this child's

eyes. Oh, I remember the Tiki Days with all that
pineapple, rain and drums. Remember

the dancing? Like seaweed. Like dolphins.
My hand undulates the horizon in

floating waves anyone can see except
his mother who yanks his arm. I remember

the Tiki Days too and those were the good old
days before kids. The boy resumes softly slapping

his mother's bare knee, back of his hand, open
palm, swishing gently on her skin. In his rhythm, MA-

ma, MA-ma, MA-ma. He folds in
upon himself, a kapa cloth with perfect

plaited corners, lays himself down in the bottom
of a koa canoe, pushes off to sail by the stars

you may only see in the dark.

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by Catherine Keefe

as dictionary. Silent as the word
book. Unabridged. Not the kind
you carry in your back pocket. You

must go home to stand agape before
that hand-hewn cherry wood table
lit by rainbow of abalone glass

holding all the words, a sketch of starlings
flooding the Iowa plains just before
snow falls. At your fingertips. Dog

ear me. Highlight. Memorize. How
long it took to write the first
Oxford English Dictionary?

Seventy years. An almost life-
time to gather precise meaning. Unused
words kicked to the curb for rubbish

pick-up. I've thrown away so much. Once
I said the right thing and you leaned forward
so quickly I couldn't uncross my arms. Crack

my spine to find crumbs and new
adjectives. This is my body for you
to find your way. Pluck

grace notes like the guitarist
on the green that summer
before the great migration.

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