Black Pearls, Polynesia

I.
The sky, like a furtive yet expansive maw,
looks as though it's swallowed
a series of dyes: stretched cotton spilled
and plucked at the seams
by the fingers of an old woman,
indigenous.
Boxes bob. Black pearls
float the surf in cages, tethered like children
to the hands of mothers:
these are hard things, full of protest,
the sea harvest anchored below waves.

II.
Waist high
in the sandbar, you rise
a French Poseidon, native
to this archipelago of boats and nets.
Western women applaud you, praise
your strong back, your sea-salted skin,
sip pink drinks as you stay savage,
as my heart holds.
I take in water, brown hands on oars,
a string of shells
tied at your nape, tourist flash capturing
your foreign profile, your figure
and mine--an atoll of blue on green on
black, fishermen
gathering us up like
vacationers with shells, trinkets,
your island a pocketed souvenir--

III.
A plump white woman is carried to shore,
feet dry, a missionary's God
dropping the sunset behind her.