Outside a door in east Maui, a brindled dog sits.                  No cars drive the dirt road.No child appears with food to share or ask for.                  There is only inside, today.A telephone cries, and to each caller, a grandmother                  chirps, Aloha. God bless you.In a corner bedroom, a girl is kept in bed,                  surrounded by mosquito nets & womenwho take turns binding her wound.                  Miles of violence in their eyes, they knowhow to speed through marrow. They know                  scars & stars, two thingsa woman should never count in relation to her body.                  The number of names, maybe,wired around her stomach. The number of stomachs                  opened like doors and not so muchcleaned as cleaned of secrets. Yes, there is something                  better than the heart. A whirringsent deep in the body. Like a girl in a house.                  You are finally home.No glorified organ, no heroic heart. Only guts.                  Viscera. Ask any Hawaiian.Drive the dirt road, follow my grandmother’s voice.                  She will bless you. My aunties & cousins,their long fingers pinned to the walls, they point                  the way to a corner bedroom,this poem. My sister is closing the mosquito net.                  I am pooling in a bed of gauze.New versions of the Bible will use the word “heart.”                  Ask any of us where it really hurts.Even my grandma, god bless you.                  Ask the brindled dog guarding my stomach.