Copihue Poetry

Only it’s not the New World I’m shipping off
to, but instead it’s my own life I’m discovering,
and the sea washing up through the loose oakum,
creaky joints, carries with it the faint traces of
Wait-a-second, maybe I’m not the first one to see
this coastline, a weird déjà vu realization
that I’m only the first to see it from this precise
perspective in this precise time, because other
people, other cultures, have been making great
use of all this bounty well before my consciousness
ever arrived. And likely will after I’m gone.
No, this isn’t about reconstituted atoms,
reincarnation, romanticizing conquest—
land and people—rightful indigenous reparation,
or any other this-life-this-afterlife attempt
at reconciling what’s before my eyes:
one squinting and struggling to stay closed,
the other desperately hoping to catch a glint
through the ever-decreasing brass spyglass.
What experience isn’t filtered and funneled?
But for something to glint, I don’t need
to invent the sun, reflection itself, or
mother of pearl swirling on the upturned
and splayed insides of a beached bivalve,
purple-white and amazingly content.
So then, my shoulders drop, relax with
the realization—pressure’s off—that I also
don’t need to be the one to explain sunscreen,
malarial shots, or even lifesaving psychotherapy,
and that peninsula over yonder, if it’s not
already named, we’ll henceforth refer to
as Point Vulnerability, that instance where
I discovered—rounded upon—the power
of not needing to be anything to anyone.
Who they think I am is none of my actual
business, and look, look, just have a look:
I don’t think I’ve ever seen that kind of

bird before. She rides relentlessly forward,
gliding on the unseen current, despite
the unknown, in search of food or family.