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.
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