From my Wayward Island

Sometime in the last decade, I gave birth to this island.
Vaguely Hebridean, relentlessly aloof 

Erupting from the travails of a mangled spirit
Thirty thousand miles from any other land —
A subterranean volcano spilling its guts
To a primordial ocean that cares not
Whether its passion bleeds or ossifies.

Marooned sailors struggled on my barren shores
Only to wither from exposure and hunger, for
If I could sustain life, my own would not be
A carrion of bleached bones and rigor mortis
Already picked clean by ravenous seabirds.

If you ask for a map of my unchartered terrain
You will only find the nocturnal ramblings of a madman
He is lost in convoluted obsidian caves, eyes glazed over;
Years of wandering the omnipresent dark taught him:
The only solace in life is the embrace of one’s own arms.

I am unanchored, my spine floats from my nerves
It juts out as a crooked mountain range from North
To South, mapping the constellations of my rivers
Frothing with the crimson promise of life and love, only to
Pool in a mooncrested bay near the bottom of my heart.

There you will find the Blue Elm Tree:
Maybe I am the girl who lies in the water
Maybe I am the man waiting in the nook
I would tell you, trust me I would
If only I remembered how to (feel).

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