Tourists trudge through
the shabby dock marketplace,
peruse the usual array of
teeth necklaces, chess sets
carved from human bone
and assorted shrouds.
“Everything very cheap,”
say the locals in unison.
A crowd gathers
at a far-end table,
where an old, bent-back,
gray-bearded man
is selling shrunken heads.
He, unlike the others,
does brisk business.
That’s why,
on many a mantelpiece
back home,
shriveled, dark-eyed faces
stare back at whoever
cares to admire them.
The name of the island,
its landscape, its people,
are long forgotten.
Only the smell of tannin
survives the long voyage home.