By NO‘U REVILLA Make Rice To All the Good Witches I Learned From for Haley I rinse fists of brown grain with water that comes from the faucet and — even if I can’t afford it — take the time to watch hard pellets squeeze through my fingers as good brown children are made to squeeze through holes in fences on private property. I broke my mother when her glass bowl of sea shells shattered in a two bedroom house in Kahului, where daughters were special & crooked, fingers like wands pointing home, pointing prince, pointing ‘til they dropped off & god it was sticky to apologize. Dirty water pours out, tap water shoots in. I pieced her back together years after I saw a house drop on a woman’s head like a good Christian name like a civilized idea. Pretty woman with big hair and minions sent me glass slippers, singing with out moving her lips…something like girl meets boy & they make sticky crooked houses together. But I never lose a piece of rice because that could be my daughter. 12 My mother needs a glass bowl because I had too many fingers & not enough direction. Tell Big Hair I’m off & barefoot forever.