Coconuts

Tom Lombardo

    Before she finds her winter cave,
    to sleep through winter snow
    and darkness, what does Harry Bear
    require? December First? The yummy milk,
    the crunchy meat of sweet her-tummy-full-
    to-the-brim-digest-all-winter coconuts.


    She books Air Canada to Honolulu. Coconuts
    don't grow near Harry's cave
    in North Alberta. The woods there? Full
    of piney evergreens, and June snow
    covers trees like milk
    spilled. That's more than coconuts can bear.


    First-class seat, ice cream sundaes, and Harry Bear
    sits next to Honolulu Coconuts'
    Vice President of Sales, who's drinking tea with milk.
    He starts to cry: Summer cave-
    ins, Mauna Loa lava, melting mountain snow
    destroyed my coconut trees full


    measure. No time for coconuts' skins to full,
    like wet wool. (Coconut trees bear
    nuts green, harden them to brown, like lava after snow
    melts.) Harry Bear erupts: No coconuts!
    Her hair pricks up. I left my cave
    for famine? The startled stewardess pours milk


    on Harry Bear, who leaps she hates sticky, milk
    on fur leaps through the door. Her parachute puffs full,
    floats her down to a deserted isle, a cave
    nowhere in sight. Just rocks, sand. I'm one scared bear.
    She starts to cry, then sees the palm trees bearing coconuts.
    She shakes the tree trunks. Snow!


    A blizzard of coconut snow!
    She cracks them open on rocks. Sucks all their creamy milk.
    I've never seen so many coconuts.
    She crunches snowy meat until her tummy's full.
    She hears a lullaby whisper: Harry Bear,
    hibernate. She noses around. No cave.


    but sunset, palm trees, coconuts, moon full.
    Back home? More snow than I can bear.
    Here, I'll sleep milk-full. The sky, my cave.

    

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