Alexander Lumans
I found your incisors in slate quarries. Longer than mine.
Your pelvic bones hooked, like a bird’s dive
over Island Sarcasm.
On Isla Matanceros, you were queen of meteor showers,
and the treeless horizons called you Killer.
I did not use their word. At least, I tried not to.
You once stepped on a cell: my former self.
Ideal in potential, we were a Chaotician’s thesis
mistitled: ni pena ni gloria.
The real Isla Muerta, where mountains groaned
and shores crawled back, wasn’t a coming home.
There was this much erosion.
Back on Island to Dim, Island of the Clouds, I wanted
to be a fossil, a tar pit frame. My bones soon
to settle between yours. This way someone would find us.