Ostrovsky in the Rainforest, 1974

by Rebekah Curry

 

All this is too much: the green
rampant on another green,
the yellow and scarlet petals
of bird of paradise.
All this is strange to him;
he is used to months of ice
and has only ever seen
such profligate array
painted as a picture
in a child’s geography book.
He turns his head to look
for the guide the college sent
to “show him around the town”
and finds her a step behind.
She gives a smile meant
once more to reassure.
Somewhere, a toucan croaks.

The Zoological Park,
she said, was their final stop.
He must accustom himself
to all that is too much,
must make his poems contain
this green America.
He reaches out to touch
the flowers seen on the page
some twenty years ago,
but now alive with the drops
of artificial rain.