Which Way To Easter Island
It takes two days – you have to want to get there –
to see the Rapa Nui set of stoneware,
the moai mega statue declaration,
a Polynesian floor show aberration.
Each stone head fourteen tons, immobile, staring,
a leitmotif some might find overbearing.
Today a cash-crop lined up like a bus stop.
They sell you mini moai at the gift shop.
The clerk described their powers as legendary,
so I transported one back to the prairie.
It postures on the altar by my night chest
between the Virgin Mary and an amethyst,
reminding me such snake oil’s an endeavor
where gullibility goes on forever.
Having outlived those who loved her,
she felt the razor blade of loneliness
slice left to right on her soul, like a red
poinsettia exquisite in dark seasons,
like textured drapes smothering
the emergency exit.
Some dark suede in her core whispered
You are too sensitive, as if the hunching
of loneliness were a bladed texture
she could select like red drapes.
She hunched into the suede,
smothering the season with emergency
love from left to right.
Maybe I can outlive it, she whispered.
Ruth Maus is a Topeka poet whose first book, Valentine, was a finalist for the 2019 Birdy Prize.