The One Who Devours
Ai-laau rose from Kilauea, sulfuric and starved,
blackened tendrils of smoke kissing his ashen face.
Smiling as scorching lava rushed from his hands, shooting
forth from the volcano and rolling through the hills,
he laid waste to the Island again.
He gnashed the charred trees as he surfed
the lava waves, filling his belly and enjoying the scent
of cooked human flesh. Watching for a moment,
Ai-laau marveled as flecks of crisp human skin
floated through the air, beautiful cinders melting
into the molten liquids.
Natives feared him, a soulless monster murdering
their brothers and sisters, making the island craggy
and dead.
While Ai-laau took pleasure in devastation,
sated his hunger by ripping foliage from the Earth,
masticating roots and branches and fruits,
he knew that creation demanded sacrifice.
Humans were too short sighted, too sentimental,
to think of the greater good. They saw only violence
as his fires spread through fertile fields.
There is no creation without destruction;
Flowing lava carved paths into the Island,
releasing calcium and potassium and magnesium
over time, enriching the soil, allowing water to traverse
the craters it left behind.
Death was the sacrifice, a simple demand
of the old god. Ai-laau, monstrous as he seemed,
violent as he was, left new life to nourish
the remaining peoples, a balance for the tolls
he demanded.
