Poetry

Searching

by

Curt Last

A LeCar pulls over, an older French woman welcomes me to ride.
Unable to speak French, she unable to speak English, first words
Are awkward, as I can only tell her Hostel Teamo, then we’re off.

After a few turns, what I have been walking around for hours
She finds in minutes—a junky little wood sign and the hostel
Half-way down a small, shaded back street I’ve passed twice.

As I drop my feet upon asphalt, she grabs my left hand and points
To a photo of a young woman hanging from her rearview mirror,
Then makes the sign of the cross and raises her left hand to the sky.

I bow my head in sympathy, looking her uncomfortably in the eyes,
Unable to comprehend what she is telling me in French.
Whether a prayer to me or to the girl, or just a wish, I don’t know.

I thank her in very poor French and walk off only to be puzzled
By the meaning of this incident—is the girl the woman’s daughter?
Did she die a tragic death or is she off somewhere far?

These questions puzzle my mind and stir my emotions
In an unknowing empathy for the woman’s dilemma, then fade
As I walk up the steps to check into the Pension Teamo.

B-52 at Night

by

Curt Last

New moon night when reef waters, Philippine Sea,
And horizon become one black vortex—a nothing
To the animated light from a hotel and club circus;
The bright bustle of man hides the greater force,
Denying my eyes the black-cake-icing of sea.

The B-52 flies in at midnight on a weekly exercise,
Throws three grand lights from its nose and wings;
On thin-clouded nights the shredded, soft lines
Of the beams give perspective to their trajectory,
Though often they appear simply as sun-like pearls.

Dead white wakens the sight of an endless ocean,
Beyond the vacuum shhhooosh and rumble huummm
Of the deadly behemoth that flies over Tumon;
Triple shining moon reflections shows not just reef,
But where it separates from the ethereal reaches.

A Brief Sketch of Tye, Garden, and House

by

Curt Last

Small, quaint off-color wood accoutrements
ground pastels, strike against bright solids;
appearing like a children’s show playhouse,
dull yellow walls smooth out sharp contrasts.

Out past the back door of the living room
a garden spreads out—taro plants, lemon
and coconut trees, exotic varietals and palms
—everything I eat grows in his garden;

except for the stale crackers and strawberry jam.

Bright skull cap, cotton-lined parietal—
this crown distinguishes our successor-to-chief,
a baby bib, first thought to be customary,
turns out to be an emblem from years of smoking.

Vocal chords and sinuses were removed,
doctors left a hole above his sternum,
the bib walls his airway, hides mucus,
as a faint rasping emanates post-op;

he cannot taste the fruits of his garden.

His stony voice is hard to comprehend
and most often filled with religious devotionals—
this reverence gets tedious for an agnostic,
though his kindness influences patience.