Kristin Bock
The island pulls at you every moment
without rest. You'll be rendered into pieces,
torn apart by sorrow. The only creatures
that escape are birds. They say even mermaids
go mad, biting the bottoms of boats
in the bay. In early morning, you can see them
dragging themselves to shore. Mermaids
with mouths bloody, full of splinters.
Mermaids blinded by their own blue hands.
I came to this island after the death of a friend.
Actually, she did not die. She's still alive
but I am dead to her. The island told me
this is a special kind of sorrow. A sorrow
with a light inside that never goes out—
an inverse lighthouse at the bottom
of a sea. They say your hands fall off first,
most likely at the shore where it's windiest.
No, those are not starfish scattered on the sand.
They are hands curling in on themselves, making
little nests on the beach. Sometimes, they scuttle
away to cut off other hands. The abandoned
always retreat or lash out, but never make it free.
The island has three rules: Never try to warm
the freshly dead. Never dismember a mermaid
by moonlight. Never, ever, fall in love
with a bird. I've come to know the difference
between sadness and grief. Sadness
is the knell of a bell on a buoy at night,
riding the swells. Grief is a boat
exactly the size and shape of the sea.
I see you approaching the island, friend,
but can no longer wave you in.