written by: Katy Santiff
As an island child, I would pull myself up on the crib
and look through glass-locked darkness
for reindeer to cut courses over cinder block homes.
Surely, I would see their flights–
there’d be some Comet in the harbor sky, a red nose.
How would the Round Man find us,
I wondered, thinking his firs aren’t planted on
Did these palm trees need stringed lights?
I’d wait, watching, a student of Polynesian gleams.
It seemed that once, maybe twice,
celestial streaking meant Old Nick found Oahu.
Air Force child–they’re satellites.
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