there is no Judah
Ben-Hur to take them
up,
no blood of Christ
in which to bathe them.
shades and shadows
crumble who once were
flesh, rotted
beyond time.
the reign of King
Kamehameha, the
fifth of his name,
sent them to the
island,
sent them to the
garden,
not Gethsemane,
but Eden,
some would say;
i would say,
would have said
then.
a girl whose only
dream
(beyond being blue and blonde and
bony)
was to
die
a Martyr;
refusing to refute,
wrapped in banana leaves,
left to cure and smoke,
painless (had to be)
blissful (must be)
after a short life,
such a short life
caring for the
un
wanted
un
washed
un
wept
wounds
of skin and sore.
a female Father Damien
they would say,
would have said,
now
had we not for
saken Martyrs,
had we not
traded it
all
for avocados and
papayas,
for antibiotics and
Las Vegas;
had we not
all
exchanged
Eden
for a National
Park.
s rogers 3 february 2012
