Hina Triumphant



                                                 

 
Hina Triumphant
 

 

Maui, foolish boy, only a being as rash as you would imagine destroying me. The magic of your grandmother’s jawbone, your past glories, do not impress me.  Even if the Wagtail had not laughed out loud at the sight of your legs sticking out of me as you pushed headfirst up toward my womb, I still would have been roused to wakefulness and crushed you as I did.
 

You should have been ruled by the overpowering pleasures of my sex, lingering in the warmth and moistness, the fecund smells inside me. Instead, the illusion of immortality spurred you on. You were seduced by a lie! Had you completed your journey and emerged from my mouth, I would have bitten you in two, and so would have kept humanity chained within my power, forever born to light, only to see the light continually die—in the eyes of those you love as they close forever; within you, when your own eyes finally go dark; in the heavens, when stars, even your own sun, are extinguished.

 
It is unfortunate that you, known for your wit, did not think to wake me with a gentle touch. Surely the old woman taught you the power of such respect.  Master that, mortals, and one day the death of your planet will not matter. You will have found a home elsewhere. I doubt your egotism and brutish aggression will permit that.

 
Maui, those you sought to save are unworthy—believing because they must die they are doomed.  Always there will be those standing on the shore, ready to laugh at your defeat. Much better to stay drunk on rice wine until you die an old man, wrinkled, toothless, a eunuch, than to sacrifice yourself for cynics and cowards.

 
As for me, one never born and who cannot die, I confess the endless days alone become tedious. I wonder what love might have been like with you, my hands grasping the firm flesh of your buttocks, the heat of human desire thrusting within me.

 
Still, I ask you, what deity, no, what reasonable being, would trade eternity for the certainty of death.  Really?  Just to gamble on the uncertain alchemy of human love? 
 
 
 
Stephen Granzyk
 
 
 
Stephen Granzyk is a retired English teacher who lives and writes poetry in Chicago. His poems have appeared in English Journal and Blacklight, a publication of the Organization of Black Students at the University of Chicago.
 
 

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