Lahaina
A poem by Maria Nazos

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.




Wonderful.
Thank you