Ohana;
Stella Mina
Babette Cieskowski
Ohana
The hum from the orchard is reaching its pitch.
I’m four and can’t stop crying. You tell me in you
is my new best friend, you, veiled in lace and silver,
your hair blood-red and curled. I press my cheek to
your belly and wait. A wet thud kicks into my ear,
as if to say You’re done. You’ve had your turn.
I tug on your wrist while we walk,
your bracelets bright in Kailua sun.
***
Little speck of white and gold,
blonde hair, bright-eyed—Say hello to Bella.
I pick her up from the bed, cradle her neck
like pikake, run my fingers through each curl,
watch them bounce back into place. She stares at me
in silence. Your hair curls like a green onion.
My mother laughs, braids my hair as I sit,
wondering if I’ve ever been that pink.
***
Your sister is a butterfly. You’re the bee.
I am pure sound—running, tracking sand
through the house, the crunch of beach
and tile underfoot, shells hidden in the carpet.
She tells me to sit, be still, to watch my sister
watching me. She’s the light filtered through
the lantern above my bed—soft and unsubstantial.
***
Stella Mina
For my daughter, not born
I have felt your truth in briars,
though no smell comes of it,
no rose water to soften the redness
in me. No mothers. I’ve named you
as a parting gift, something
etched in stone, swallowed. I
won’t hold you in my curve.
You’ll never hear my birth yell,
never feel me internal, your right
to a slick welcoming. Even now,
I feel you ticking, peeling
my insides like citrus.
Born in Oahu, Hawaii, BABETTE CIESKOWSKI previously lived in Sunrise, FL for over ten years. She currently lives in Columbus, Ohio where she earned her MFA in Poetry from The Ohio State University. Her poems have appeared in Compose, the Minnesota Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Laurel Review, Frontier Poetry, Crab Orchard Review, Puerto del Sol, Prairie Schooner, and Juked, among others.