The oleander are poison.
I learned that a few days ago,
my grandfather pointed it out,
with his fingers, as gnarled as they have always been,
resting on the bloom.
Oleanders are bright like crimson fingers,
sprays of solid sound: horns.
They were woven into women’s hair
to help announce their arrival.
But chewing on them releases something toxic.
It’s just another example of something beautiful
that’s deadly.
I learned this from Delilah.
She would have loved this place with its hanging Spanish moss;
she could have wandered for months with her shears,
trimming the oaks of their strength without fear of anything
dropping on her head
in retribution.
For on this island, much is tolerated,
as long as the rivers are allowed to find the salty sea,
and the herons can lift from the marshes.
While on a small pontoon,
I reached out for the dolphins in the sound,
skimming their spray with my palm,
getting my hair wet.
I sat back and smiled, knowing that while here,
there was one regret.
We each find our homes eventually.
But we are not allowed to stay.
No comments:
Post a Comment