Lahaina

A poem by Maria Nazos

The August 2023 wildfires on Maui killed nearly 100 people, forced tens of thousands of residents and tourists to evacuate the island and devastated the historic resort city of Lahaina. (State Farm / Wikimedia Commons)

Because the thing that always burns 
To the ground somehow manages to rise back up, 
We drive past the remains of what was 
Once great and small, and I’m reminded 
Of what your auntie told me earlier today 
When back from Iraq, your mother 
Was on fire; not a fever, but cancer
Spreading its black wing across 
The desert of her brain—
And how your aunt told me the night she died,
You stayed on like a light, though 
Just barely; you were on your knees 
Outside her hospital room, rocking 
Back and forth. It’s the part 
Of the story you’ve always left out:
Telling it upright and with military precision 
And your aunt tells me then there was you,
And although it’s impossible for me 
To ever restore what was lost, I hope 
There’s a way to build another tiny city
Through love and hard work, and 
Argument. And as we drive, you wear
The same calm face, but only I know
The places where you’re being burned.
The town will never be the same, 
Perhaps, ever, but we can witness it
In the process of its new becoming.

---

Maria Nazos grew up in Athens, Greece, and Joliet, Illinois. Her work has been published in The New Yorker, TriQuarterly, World Literature Today, and elsewhere. She’s
the author of the poetry collection Pulse (Omnidawn, 2026) and the translation collection The Slow Horizon that Breathes (World Poetry Books, 2023) from the poet
Dimitra Kotoula, longlisted for the Anglo-Hellenic League Runciman Award.

Pulse is currently available for pre-order here.