The ones you pick clean by No'u Revilla

In the dream, my house is still there. Blue paint, clinging.

Windows glazed in salt. In the dream, I rip every door open,

and behind the door that never locks stands an old piece of glass.

I see myself and belong less to this world, like a bee backing out

of a flower. Aunties tell: when you sleep, your ʻuhane slips out

from your tear duct and travels the night for everything you left

unfinished. In the two-faced streets of Dream City, every door is

a stiff-lipped curse. Aunties teach: How do you break in

to your own house? Jalousies; fuck doors. How do you break in

to your own body? Find a mirror that hasn’t killed you. Dreams

don’t come quietly. Be careful with the ones you pick clean.

Aia me Niolopua. The god of sleep eats me out

­

and I dare the aunties to tell my story different. Let me out,

kill the mirror, unmark me. I am not the best granddaughter.

I hate the blue house. My dream is still there, groping

for tear ducts in the dark, whispering: let me in, let me in.

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NO'U REVILLA is an ʻŌiwi poet and educator. Born and raised with the Līlīlehua rain of Waiehu, Maui, she prioritizes aloha, gratitude, and collaboration in her practice.  Her debut book Ask the Brindled (Milkweed Editions 2022) won the 2021 National Poetry Series and 2023 Balcones Prize. She teaches creative writing at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa and is a lifetime “slyly / reproductive” student of Haunani-Kay Trask. 

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