The island has been there
for some time, a crescent
and a blob when it needs to be,
beautiful and hideous,
and many have gone
including brothers, sisters, fathers,
piling wood atop other wood
until it becomes something
to describe, where highways
ascend and descend at equal
speeds, but always return
like trains crawling back
to their stations, for the satisfaction
of being filled by something
with less self-hatred;
someone will bring you home,
and the carrier delivers
packages to your oblong door,
the lighthouse may be old
but it steers ships away
from coasts which are violently
indifferent, and steep hills
sometimes lead to fields;
a musician is bleeding on stage
having a religious experience
while the audience stares
at their phones like frogs
drifting on lily pads;
neither of us are going anywhere
we both know this island
is waiting for us; the invitation
non-negotiable, process
has already begun,
and soon enough
will the moment come
our toes dig into damp sand
and we forget
what the ocean
ripped from our chests.
--
Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Heimat Review, York Literary Review, Mersey Review, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English. Find him on Twitter @Ruishanewrites