Ankle deep in the Kalapaki surf,
I walk by two pale teenage boys
sitting on the sand,

one pinkened by sun, his clavicle
sporting a bone-white circle
of puka shells.

A few yards later I walk by
two local boys browned by sun
on boogie boards

in the shallows, as one says,
“See haole boy with puka?”
He issues a derisive snort.

“Puka boy.”
His friend snaps back,
“Brah, you wear puka.”

Stink eye exchange,
exuberant splashing.
“I nevah…”

“You wear puka Lina make fo’ you.”

More stink eye. Then small smiles
broaden into grins as big as
their boards, heads wagging

back and forth in recognition
of the unfathomable
manifestations of love.