Blood Debt

I.

Here we are perched on the jade Gulf,

twelve new townhomes surrounded by fifteen-foot fences.

In the courtyard a hot tub sits bubbling night and day, always empty.

II.

The fields stretch in all directions, billowing endless dust.

At Home Depot hundreds of coffin-sized plastic bins are stacked up to the ceiling.

Says a local: Ah hell naw, we don’t need those,

we find a body we just pour some lime on it.

III.

I cross the bridge in either direction all day long,

skip to the front of the line.

No one stops me, ever. The white-blonde hair,

the blue eyes, the pricey hiking clothes — they are my passport.

IV.

The blackened sign once read “Wal-Mart”.

Every day the workers arrive in three shifts. Cars come, cars go.

People who once couldn’t eat now have money in their pockets, food on the table.

Inside children sleep on concrete floors like cold storage.

V.

I came seeking my biological father, an island boy who never paid a tab.

His fifth wife prepares a gourmet meal, reads us poetry.

He says: I stopped sailing when I could tell the sea was watching me.