Cargo Cult




On my rooftop garden 

between chimneys and antennae 

my laundry reveals prevailing winds 

my potted plants spell 

words of love 

to lure you to a landing 


I see you crossing 

in the morning glinting 

in the sun's reflection 

and in the evening

back again your belly silver 

tinged and setting

I pack water, fertilizer

raised up by block and tackle

runway lines staked out in lime

a conning tower made of ladders

down below a flow of traffic     

threading slowly round my island


Where you go or where you're from

are thoughts that will not own an answer

I know you by the shadow light

that dives and arches on my body

by the humming of your power

as you cut, then heal the heavens


You are the stories told at night

around a fire to my children

when you wore the storms as cloaks

and lightning issued from your fingers

when you dropped the billowed flowers

and we feasted on your kindness


Only the youngest and the oldest

hold the hope of your descending

changing legend back to something

not of the mind's invention

wind to wine, memory to bread

hand to hand, mouth to mouth