LORD, HOW?

Turquoise has visited this island and spread its table in a lagoon

of fish and turtles behind a coral wall,

nourishment for the bodies and souls of the dying.

The clearest possible skies invite speculation and at night,

beyond the moon in hiding and absent city lights,

the same skies allow starlight unimpeded access

to respond with more questions, deeper inquiries born of quiet grief,

to the questions asked by those whose time is short.

For this is the island of palliative care with cushions for the weary –

a slow and gentle ride (no speed over twenty) –

for those whose illness has taken command,

boats for slow rowing across quiet waters inside the coral reef.

There’s nothing to do without a mobile phone,

life without email. This is a place where slow cycling

and recycling claim the hour, mutton birds and woodhens and palms

indifferent to the passing of those on vacation –

two weeks, then home after tasting the disengagement of the terminal. 

The airstrip is not well suited for landing in a storm.