Bruce Highway
blue to port
starboard, green
charcoal grey road
rolls out into hill
we follow the dash dash dash
line south
looking for roos
dodging the heat
learning new names
for what might be next
poetry
waterless ocean
waterless ocean
it’s a curious feeling
this waterless ocean
sea + sand but no
bathing floating quenching
the water does all its usual things
but not to us
chock full of crocs with restless jaws
and box jellies that would unwittingly kill us
(the sign warns apply vinegar
+ immediately begin CPR –
the pain’s so excruciating
it’ll truly stop your heart)
we wander the shore
like Victorian ladies
who for now must keep
our lacy petticoats dry
hammerhead
hammerhead
strolling on the tame paved Esplanade
late on an empty Monday morning
we eye a pole flexing
with the tell-tale wiggle of fish
and the man in black
with an unkempt white beard
racing to grab the rod
we pause to see
whether he’ll land it
and sure enough
the line drags heavy on the sand
with the fish’s pull
but, no, it’s not –
this shape is all angles
sharp tail
and misshapen face
we all gasp in horror
then recognition
shark
not only that but
hammerhead
the eyes like afterthoughts
on metastasized lumps of face
the mouth when the man flips the creature over
a half-moon of needles
begging to prick
but the skin feels
surprisingly smooth calm reasonable
innocent
it’s a baby
a few weeks old
and he can’t heave it
back into the aqua of Trinity Bay
too soon for my suddenly squeamish taste
fluency
fluency
at the rental car counter
English gushes from the Kiwi clerk’s
young, witty, unpretentious lips
and within seconds
she grasps our situation
anticipates what we’ll say next
banters, poses questions
sizes up our promotional brochure needs
and sends us on our way
with bubbly brisk efficiency
while we blink mutely
realizing how impoverished
our speech has been for months
(our fault, not learning Tok Ples
as they say in PNG)
and we stand stunned by what can be said
when you share a mother tongue
endings
endings
something’s about to change
to be wrapped up
the final period inked
and what can you possibly say
to leave this chapter satisfactorily?
what last rituals, goodbyes, reflections,
exiting bits of dialogue
can prepare you and your reader
for who you will be next?
one last SP
a final cold shower
a salute to the ribbon-tailed
then a return to English tongues
resolved: not taking the blame
resolved: not taking the blame
like Siddhartha
he knows how to wait
silent and still
quiet and calm
less certain is how
he will take in
the guide’s excuse:
you moved too much
as we unmeld ourselves
from the fronds and branches
I hear his breath catch
fighting back tears
on the long silent walk home
I wonder what he will say
when he can speak freely
hoping he won’t accept the proffered blame
at home the tears come
and relief on both accounts
he knows who he is
and won’t be told otherwise
how is it at 12
he already walks away from suspect guilt
with clear eyes and a steady conscience
when I still can’t shake my Catholic days?
shaking hands
shaking hands
saying hello
is not the same
as placing your palm
in another’s grasp
feeling their corporeality
in the flesh
letting the electricity
that is your pulse
connect with their spark
putting yourself
in their hands
for even an instant
ribbon-tailed astrapia
Owen took these photos.
ribbon-tailed astrapia
bobbing through the bush
he sews a white path
through green ground
binding memory and dream
when the WiFi barely works
when the WiFi barely works
0s and 1s drip
like fat orbs of honey
no, molasses –
black-brown and glossy
slowly teasing me with
the taste of warm gingerbread
I’m like those
inconsistently rewarded lab rats –
they never give up –
and I click & reload over and over
maybe this time
the bits will go down smoothly
my desires will sail through
the twisted pipe of fiber/cable
and the rental car will
magically be reserved
be jijimo
This poem is inspired by the Be Jijimo Gallery at the National Gallery & Art Museum in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. The museum gives this explanation written by Professor John Waiko for the term be jijimo: “Be is literally ‘mouth’. Jijimo is ‘sustaining continuity’. Jijimo may be used by a person who has only one sucker of a particular taro variety; then jijimo is absolutely essential. He must sustain the sucker or that variety of taro will be lost to the community. In the legend, Rirowa, the husband gave the advice, ‘be jijimo’, keep the fire alight by blowing on it. But used as an abstract term, be jijimo means ‘sustaining’ or ‘keeping alive by word of mouth’.
be jijimo
I open my mouth
and pencil comes out
in descending diagonal lines
slidenotes aiming to
capture the essence
of what it’s like to be
here now
