One Island
When you meet a man who is satisfied with one island,
you want to walk around him, a complete circumference,
to find where his edges are. If there is sand
or reef—you want to see how the trees grow,
trapped in wind. He shows you the spine
of a sea urchin nested in his foot.
This man whose soul is a boat tied to a single post—
you want to sit with him long enough
to hear the curled shell of your body whistling.
When you say “California” you are a space creature
talking about a star. Nothing grows there.
Here we have mangoes, purple sea-grapes,
hog-plums spilling ripe across a path.
He could show you where to dive to see caves underwater.
The sky is filled with people like you—halfway coming,
halfway going. A plane lands every day between five and six.
The islanders hear it, ears pressed to air,
the minute it leaves the shore. On cloudless days
mountains of the mainland unfurl in the west.
Grocers write proud lists on blackboards beside their doors:
American Cheese, Canned Pork.
Inside are men counting pennies, suspenders ordered in 1968.
There’s a lot to do here: walk, watch, breathe.
Yesterday the man found a hunk of driftwood
snagged in the swamp. Hired four friends to drag it out.
Today it becomes a woman listening.
The man drops his chisel, turns her so we can see all sides.
We dream of taking her home with us,
placing her away from the wall in a house far from water.
Why? Because she is like one island,
complete in herself, curves connected.
She only lets you go so far.
After that you are taking the chances
the pirates took, the chances you take every day,
when you live in a world that barely knows you
on a ship that is always pointed
somewhere else.
Utila, Honduras