‘Lei’ing the Island

I

Silken sacrament of night poetry

drapes like a long tender embrace

around my shoulders

this circling of the lei’

ebbs the flooding of some

vague beckoning mysteries,

she, tangerined face, moist eyes

faintly twitching, half-smile slowly ebbing

does she know how the omega

of these rounded rainbow colors

have already changed her?

in slow motion, our

toes sink into the the evening

dewy sponged grass,

my thoughts of self are

eclipsed like a lighthouse beam

I want to speak, words vanish

she looks up, then over at me

imprint of her forefinger

on my upper lip, quiet

II

far away, south of the equator, then west

lies another island, like this Hawaiian one

filled with carnations, but enveloped

not by coral nor flowers nor volcanic ash

but by garbage, a circle of refuse

chlorox bottle, coca-cola cans, number 2 plastics

tilting into wave upon wave,

give a lightness to this undulating dance

low slung palm trees surround the

one harbor, the one ship on Friday

docks, this island once some 50’

above sea level is now reduced to 20’

in 20 more years, she will be gone

part of a long historic trade between

land and sea, in this new century

we name it ‘global warming

endangered then this island plus

the 180 men, women, children who

sing,laugh, garden and fish, for

centuries, like their ancestors

are not ready to leave

not so long ago a Brit reporting for the BBC

came out in search for a story

on that Friday morning, crossing over

gangplank from ship to dock, he cried out in alarm

"you must do something with your garbage, look

at it, surrounding the entire island, what a disgrace!

he smoothed his hands, as if done with it, with them

"oh mister, you don’t get it," said the bosun

employee of the ship, native to the land

"this garbage provides us a sanctuary

from high tides and coastal waves

always bearing down, sneaking around

palms, creeping up to our huts,

what you call garbage

is our refuge, our salvation.

these cans, bottles, palm fronds, fish skeletons

soften the waves, slow the tide,

next time, if your return, bring us your garbage

III

our last day "here" she offers passion,

orange, guava juice plus shells strung

circled my bowed head ‘aloha’ she says,

not knowing I fly away today to ‘mainland’

this circling of arms, flowers and shells

new to me, like guardian angels reminded

of what I have not known, mercy

IV

at the airport, I see my reddened face

in a mirror, gift of surf and sand

I finger my stringed shells

my thoughts gliding back to the beginning

of the week, when at the door of our cottage

the brown skinned man, the warmest

of smiles hovering around us,

circled my beloved with the flowers,

saying ‘aloha,’ and then it was me,

who received the embrace as

she circled my waist, and it was

not her, but me,

I was the one who cried.