Easter Island, Rapa Nui, or simply the land

your ancestors felt no need to name,

place that receives me now

eager and awkward: my eyes

hauling picture-book images,

mouth filled with questions

juggling answers as I breathe.

 

I will think of you as an island

without color on a map,

your first people dizzied in harmony,

clothed by the land itself:

no reason to signify

that which receives and gives,

asks nothing in return.