Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Alice Wong

My Palm Frond

After all this time, you still haven't learned My country's history so short, barely two hundred years, Yet an eternity longer than the world's Jurassic you know So well by heart. Yes, my little island And your giant continent share our minstrel clouds, This seraglio of clouds that danced Through countless incarnations before hauling Their shaking sails above your well-cushioned shores, Luscious divans like lips paled with cooled desire Or even frightened in anticipation of a weight Not quite its own that threatens to sink its effervescence. I long to plunge my own feet into my island's shores As roots of their own right, the only true roots, But the sands shift only to parody my wanderlust, A refusal to kiss a helot, payback for tainting their pure grains With feet that have tasted your rococo velvets, Winding-sheets ensconcing the absence Of a mind vacated at my touch, the clutch Of a hungry open fist a palm frond Baring so jarringly what it says and yet Lying so prone on my shores like a muse too idle to work Its many wands into the blurring windstorm of the mind's world That will whisk away my islet, a bright pendant To seal your heart no longer fearing its haunting verdigris.