Survivor: Desert Island Edition
What I miss first is the rubbed plum.
Out in the sea I cut myself badly. No hope folks back home would say if this was broadcast on TV. They would say go for the rope & wrap it around your cramping thigh. A discovery channel narrator would then give a definition of human blood: that which wants out but never in. Sharks show up. They ask me if I've seen a guy with a beard run by—I can do nothing for them. They ask me anyway how I like the new place. I tell them that the sand is of fine grain & high quality & that I for one cannot complain.
Who looks for boats anymore. Who stabs around for fish or flashes help help with a space blanket. I pose on the shore where no one sees me & when finally it's night I dick around, recall that I last left the house with all the lights on. It's fun to be safe in this lean-to & tarp. Today I mistook a storm for a black door; I thought a pocket was a ghost. Dogs came around me beautifully smelling of smoke. Most of my days I spend making knots or harpoons. Sometimes I just lay on the beach & quiz myself on things like what wine is right with what meat.
This is no hammock.
When will seas stop coming to me. When will they get the message that I'm just not interested or in any mood to get my heart broken again. At night when I sleep the Indian sea despairs over me. It puts pearls & shit in my locker. It asks me what color dress I'm wearing to the winter formal. It holds a boombox over its head & sings deep in the park. Tonight waves crashing over the coast sound mournfully in stereo.
Everyone makes it look so hard to open up a coconut: the boats are always coming close but not close enough.
Kylan Rice has had poetry published in The Examined Life, Thrush, decomP magazinE, Brusque Magazine and elsewhere. He is editor for Likewise Folio. He lives in Utah.