Poem 3 - Susan

Navigation

Distance is losing meaning –

this, we know.

It is an old thought;

old as telephone lines,

railways, steamships,

rickety, rolling, shining cars,

and all things that puff and chug

and cough up fumes.

Old as the great grey

snakey windings

of a million-tailed nest

of highways, byways,

and stubby driveways,

leading nowhere,

and everywhere at once.

There is meaning in a journey –

from solid ground surrounded

on all sides by endless blue.

You wrap your bundles tightly,

one by one:

here is taro, breadfruit,

coconut, banana,

here is clothing, weapons.

There are animals, packed,

as well, alongside human cargo.

They are fat, now;

the sea will leave them gaunt

and wild eyed.

Your hope, you tuck

beside your gods,

at the prow of the boat.

You strike out into nothing –

and for days that will be all you see.

You will watch the stars;

mark their passing

from one concave horizon to another –

the birds will guide you,

and the color of the sea,

the gathering of clouds

hugging the flanks

of still invisible peaks.

One day, your will again see green –

mountains rising taller than the waves.

Your feet will kiss the sand,

sweet and white, untouched and infinite,

and you, also, will be made new.

There are no journeys, now –

only transportations.

I am here, and the sand is white

and sweet, and bounded on all sides

by glass, and concrete, and cement.

There are a thousand miles

that separate myself

from all I left behind.

But my bundles can’t sustain me,

and, not having marked the path

with my own un-callused feet,

I cannot seem to find

the right way home.