I'd bleed bloody Indian ink
to be at your beck and call,
writing your vowel-shaped stories
into pure, poetic form

recounting
your pacific beauty, crown
among so many stolen jewels;
tallying your regalia's inventory,
releasing its usurped perfume

          cloak me in your moist, warm whispers
          and stain my words
          with your hibiscus wine

so that I may resurrect the sounds
of your sweet Hawaiian angel
caressing his tiny ukulele
against his sumo-sized, brilliant disguise

© by Jana Kalina.
Used with the author's permission.