THERE’S NO MORAL DILEMMA WHEN YOU’RE SEVEN

The summer we lived next to Mr. Lewis, 
he paid me fifty cents
to pick Japanese beetles off his tomato plants,
drop them in a pail of soapy water.

My seven year old eyes were mesmerized 
at the sight of these tiny scarabs, 
glinting like jewels in the sun.
How could I destroy something so amazing?

So while our neighbor sat on the front porch,
drinking his beer, I was out back
in the big vegetable garden,
armed with a bucket, sans soapy water,

collecting my green and copper beauties, 
shaking them out in the cow pasture
on the other side of the fence line.
I don’t know if they returned to the garden,

though I suspect they did. As I worked, I picked
a cherry tomato here and there for myself
and they tasted as good, if not better,
than the candy I bought with my fifty cents.

PHOTO SHOOT

Who is this pallid creature,
slouching among the cinder cones,
impersonating the Madame?
She is but an imposter,
an armature
on which to hang a dress.

Oh, Pele. Tutu Pele.
Let me bring you ho’okupu
wrapped in ti leaf.
Gifts of ‘ohelo berries and banana.
Red fish, pork.
‘Ohi’a lehua blossoms and ‘ama’u fern.

Let me lay these at your feet,
Oh, Shapeshifter, bringer
of life and death.
Let me soothe you, dear one.
To incur your wrath brings
a dance of fire.

As they pack up to go,
show yourself to them.
An old crone, a small white dog
on a dark road. Empty their pockets
of your hair, your tears.
Forgive them. They do not know.

THAT SOFT CLICK

I left you as you showered,
looked around one last time.
Made sure I took
everything that was mine.
The room service trays
still on the table, the sheets,
rumpled with love.
The sound of the water
drowned out the shutting
of the door. I paused
in the lobby, noticed
how beautiful it all seemed.
The marble floors, the velvet
lounges, the warm light
cast by crystal chandeliers.
Then I looked closer,
perhaps for the first time,
and realized how everything
was a little dirty, a little worn.
A little worse for wear.

STRANGELY CHEERFUL

My cat is dying of cancer,
yet she is strangely cheerful.
Each day is her first one―
her chirrupy cries and rumbly purrs 
greeting me with delight
at each meal, with each belly rub,
every scritch behind the ear.

The vet says animals
do not fear death,
that they do not think
in the abstract, as humans do.
And for this, I am glad. Let me
do the worrying for you, little one. 
As if there was a choice.

I remember my own days
in the treatment room,
when everyone, both patients
and nurses, broke out in belly laughs. 
When I brought pastries
and my bright quilt to share,
because aren’t all of us dying?

Poet’s Statement

My dive into poetry began as a response to a second breast cancer diagnosis in 2022. In addition to the shock of this, I was recently retired and living in a post-COVID world on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I happened upon an on-line writing group facilitated by the poet, Molly Fisk, and began writing every day, every other month to verbal and visual prompts. As a no-pressure, non-critique group, it allowed for lots of processing, experimentation and growth. It also grounded me through my treatment and subsequent recovery, and provided heaps of support, poetically and otherwise. (I actually found this literary magazine through a friend from the group, the poet, Linda Adams Blaskey.) I continue to use this group to generate work, using the alternate months to polish and submit. I like the self-imposed structure, the challenge of writing every day to prompts, the group dynamic and showing up with something to share.

All four of these poems were written in response to the aforementioned prompts, though some I cannot recall now. In one form or another, they speak to the theme of this month’s issue, “Deception.”  “There’s No Moral Dilemma When You’re Seven”, was loosely based on my real life as a seven year old. The juxtaposition of child-like justification for one’s actions and the equally child-like wonder in all things beautiful fits the theme, though I will not own up (entirely) to the story. 

I do recall the visual prompt for the poem, “Photo Shoot.” I am not, nor will I ever be considered Kanaka Maoli (native Hawaiian) but having lived in Hawaii for decades, I have great love and respect for the people and the culture. My narrative describing the foreigner fashion shoot and my attempts to both explain and mitigate the damage caused might cast a little light into otherwise dark corners. 

I invite the reader to draw their own conclusions about both the speaker and the setting  in “That Soft Click.” I wrote it quickly, watching it unfold scene by scene, as in a movie. 

Lastly, in “Strangely Cheerful” I must sadly say that this poem was written from life, both mine and my beloved Kiko. Her diagnosis came on the heels of the completion of my own treatment. I drew parallels between how much we deceive ourselves and others about the inevitability of death and dying. But we must try to find whatever bright and tiny specks of joy that we can. For they are there.

Shaun R. Pankoski (she/her) is a poet most recently from Volcano, Hawaii. A retired county worker and two time breast cancer survivor, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming here and in several other literary publications, including Gargoyle, Gyroscope, Thimble and ONE ART, among others.