We have been here, living quietly, simply

           going on, for thousands of moons.

                     As the story goes, we fled

 

the river Fly, found half-rotted carcasses

             of hull boats men use to pull

                     themselves through water.

 

We cast our lot with the tides and undertow,

             jumped on that hallowed wood,

                      sailed here. Here,

 

we make our homes under fallen trees, eat

              herbaceous greens, at times feast

                       on a turtle’s egg left unattended.

 

In Spring, deep purple flowers bloom on brambles,

            the air soft with scent, the promise of sweet

                        black berries ripe on the strawberry moon.

 

At night, we nuzzle our young to sleep,

            our lullaby, the sounds of sea

                       waves caressing the shore.

 

Now, year after year, our land shrivels, shrinks,

           an open hand closing.             No fruits.

                  No feast. Flowers wither away.

 

Enflamed, the ocean roars at night, bulldozes

            our shores with walls of water.

                      Each day, we die a little more.

 

I look around this rough reef of bones and stones-

              no paw prints remain, not even a pellet

                        to mark our place on this planet.

 

Erub Island artists call us Maizub Kaur Mukies, craft statues of us

              made from ocean debris, bright yellow fishing nets, red

                        ropes, thin black wires. Ghost Rats they whisper.

 

Lost now–our world found only

            in terse lines

                          in official reports.