Nightfall shifts to indigo light. We ascend
realms of gods through ghost-branched kiawe.
Not native to Hawaii. A dangerous intruder,
Prosopis juliflora.
Invasive and intertwined. All
but impassable.
You wooed me with night-hiking Makapu’u,
up to the old lighthouse. Come with me and see—
surf embracing O’ahu’s volcanic shoulder,
urging the island north to bolder waters.
Longing thorns tsk-tsk as we climb,
scoring exposed skin with blood pearls.
The lighthouse looms suddenly:
frighteningly white. Warm wind
blows us back from the cliff. Ocean below
enfolds shadowed lava. Spiked-bone twigs chime.
One future sunny day we will scramble up,
laughing, from tide pools of languid, scrolling, octopi.
But in this freighted moment,
when we are on the verge of what will come,
We can only gaze together seaward, watch
scattered foam coins spend the moon’s energy,
as the scents of whales and limu rise meaty-sweet,
umami for our kisses.
Elizabeth Ambos writes and lives in Washington, DC. She has inhabited multiple careers as a geoscientist, teacher, and administrator in higher education-affiliated organizations. A participant in the PocketMFA program, she has published in Spillway, Cathexis Northwest Press, Wild Roof Journal, and PocketMFA’s RUNNR.