‘Lei’ing the Island
Published: October, 2001
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.
