All afternoon you snorkel in the sheltered
bay at Kekaa Point—the most western spur
on Maui, where black lava
juts into a postcard-blue sea.
Hawaiians believe spirits of the dead
leap into the ocean
to join their ancestors from here.
You drift with pipefish and green turtles,
lulled by an alpha rhythm of sunlight
glinting on the sandy bottom,
a steady swell of waves.

You stroll the hotel grounds at night,
among orchids and scent of plumeria.
The Dipper, upside down,
empties darkness
into the moon-shaped rim of Molokini.
You learn at the front desk
your father has died.
Orion's sword hangs by a thread.