Derek Otsuji
AMONG THE MORE INNOCENT TOURISTIC AMUSEMENTS OF THE OLD WAIKIKI
Crazy as it sounds now, there was a time
when kids dove and swam in the Ala Wai,
launching from the lip of the concrete bridge
that arches over its languishing flow.
My father tells the story of tourists
who came to the bridge to amuse themselves,
tossing dimes into the canal, to watch
as he and bare-skinned buddies, brown as seals,
dove in to chase the winged heads down dim depths
—the flicked coins tumbling, tail over stamped face,
in minted showers, thin slivers of light,
before each plunked disc shivered and then sunk
—dry spectator and scurrying swimmer both
holding in their collective breaths (o thrill!)
until, triumphant, the clenched fist shattered
the mirrored surface, and waved like a flag.
Derek Otsuji lives and writes on the southern shore of Oahu. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Poet Lore, Sycamore Review, and Threepenny Review.