A paddle crabbed and now we carve quick quartz
off course, sending the island scudding into silhouette.
We scull towards a nail head, tearing the tide.
From land it bobbed, gaseous, generous, anchored
to where the wet rope of the fjord frays into its own mouth.
Here, the waves hiss and curse and turn inside out
in their attempts to make the rock yield to them,
with their desire to wrap the rock’s bright muscle
in weed, to hush the rock to sand, crushed rain, soft
raw liver raged to rock, this squat raft, last land of lost
souls and seals, slabs of the island’s own flesh
come home to fat and warm the rock’s remembering;
we wrestle our boat towards its brief beach, our guts struck
with thoughts of sudden ground and my cruel oar
the child’s spade that splits the dead jellyfish’s crown.