Poetry – Issue 4 | April 2009
Three poems by Hali Sofala
In the House of My Fathers
My grandfather whispered words in my ear
that I did not understand. They were words
of his land, Samoa. I had traveled to this place
so that my grandfather could see me live
outside of a picture frame. His thin stick fingers
felt my face and found a burrow in the hair
I hated: too wiry, too frizzy, too Samoan.
His skin sagged on his bones as if he wore
another mans russet colored coat by mistake.
Strong shoulders rounded like worn away mountains
into arms that hung like two dead fish
for sale on the roadside. I looked away
to the pink bougainvillea that crept into the open
windows. Lagi, he spoke my name in a thirsty
croak. I looked, for the first time, at his face—
at his eyes—they shimmered like sunlight
off the Pacific. They told me the body
was no marker for the soul.
About the author
Hali Sofala is currently teaching and working on her thesis at the University of Wisconsin, Madison where she pursues an MFA in English/Creative Writing. Her work here describes the first trip she took to Samoa, the birthplace of her father. It was in Samoa that she was confronted with her other half—a family she had never known, and a grandfather who was dying. She hopes to one day teach in Samoa or in any other country that will take her.
Next in Poetry: Two poems by Leah Browning
Previously in Poetry: New Orleans, Louisiana
