Jordan Kapono Nakamura: “Slow Sun Exile”

a year can now be measured in weathered candles

five o’clock tea has been a bad friend

i’ve never had

for months they’ve been quiet in the frat houses

cupping hands around the fire, squinting at the chessboard

“Trade for my Queen, please,”

the pawn is replaced which is not a pawn

but a bottlecap no one bothers to find the pieces

that slip below the table making no sound as if the floor was the

bottom of a yucatan cave 200 feet deep

fallen leaves scrape the door

with the noise of tiny claws

the scent the promise of wax

wanders by like holy men

before the good Samaritan

Before Derrida, Pollock,

before the pirate bay was closed down

my mother would sing hymns to make me dream

and i would try to feel small

then later

i had mountains make me feel small

but we can no longer see any mountains

i found a page ripped from an old story

there were just nine sentences.

but it was enough.