 In the space between the bleeding sky and dawn, voices wail in an unfamiliar tongue. In the space between my pitot and my mother's bones, a white owl watches two eel-gods dying. As a dog howls red earth into black lure, two and rock-water skylines pierce my throat. Artua, god in my belly. In the space between my head and my father's teeth, there is a stone, an ocean of tears. In my belly, blood, sand, and a chant that is a scream, reaching inward than out, gutting me like a fish. In the space between my belly and the chant that is the bleeding sky, human skin is stretched across fired stones, tempered with my grandmother's tears, calling to the spirits of her people. I shout to the heavens between us for a sign because Pulotu is not above us, it is in the sea. In the space between Pulotu and the words that bring my soul to life, there rests a broken blackened shell, gnarled and discarded by strangers who do not love us. I am thrust into unforgiving arms where Moana reminds me that between, within, and without, I am of the deep sea, green tunnel and blue vasa. In the space between sleep and my grandfather's eyes, there is a dying flame, birthed from fire, stolen from the fingers and toes of a dead god, and a fire in my belly that is pele wailing. I, she, we call for Maui to wake and slow the sun again to douse the fiery skies. In the space between the fiery skies and a sleeping Maui, there is a bird that is tongue aloha, and he roars as I am impaled on a magic hook that once pulled islands from the fire of the sea. In the space between a bird and a magic hook rests the soft curve of a woman that is a blood clot. Hidden in my belly, Nafanoa grinds her teeth against my bones, marking my body with black lines, inking my eyelids and tongue. In the space between the open sea, there's a fire in the sky, fish die in boiling waves, Saumaiafe wakes the dead, waiting for the end or the beginning. There's a grinding of teeth in my belly, and it hurts. In the space between knowing and the known, there is a gathering of stillborn children to a mother's breast, remembering words now forgotten in the language of trees. In my belly, the roots of fringing reefs clumped with blood and knotted hair. In the space between knower and knowledge, we have become orphans, blessed only with blood and pain, as Afunakwa sings of a bleeding heart, dry salt in my belly, the secrets of birds are lost. In the space between place and breath, our gods are condemned to the wind, the dreams of fish discarded by strangers who do not love us. Fish hooks in my belly pull me to the shore. In the space between I am and I will, we measure the density of var. In the pit of my belly, there is a seed, and it is sadness. In the space between climate justice and climate redemption, stands the one-eyed Hikuleo, her hair a tangle of black roots. In her belly, the children of sky, brown as the earth is old, their tears are the ocean in us. In my belly, Hina of the moon, and she weeps.