Tahiti Poem by Tony Walton

You have go to make a change.

Okay I have.

Do something that is not yourself:

Sold house, learned French:

I am going to Tahiti

as if saying it will carry me over the water.
But first I have to imagine the airplane—
its white body sleeping on the tarmac,
its engines like cats deciding whether to purr.

I've never been to Tahiti,
but I know the hibiscus there
lean toward the ocean like they're whispering
secrets only salt understands.
If I arrive,
I'll walk straight into the heat and not stop,
just keep going until the sand
turns into someone's idea of shade.

I'm bringing a book I probably won't read.
I'm bringing the kind of shoes
you can slip off without bending down.
I'm bringing the idea
that this trip will make something permanent,

Maybe I'll stand in the water
until the horizon turns soft,
and think about how I thought about
going to Tahiti
for years before I did.

And when I'm there
I'll miss the not-being-there—
the long afternoons when Tahiti
was still a bright word in my mouth,
unopened.