Shy Island

Poetry by Wendy Barnes ÷ Art by Grace Avery-Parkman

The crew sets up the grid of lights,

erects the stage among the bottles,

tires, megaliths.

Inhabitants curse our arrival

with a bout of rain

on a lonely beach

that doesn’t know its name.

We’ve exhausted our feelings,

but hope to find some here.

The island blinks off and on

like a beacon or a scapegoat,

and I feel more soluble

as I whisper to the camera:

It’s funny how I tried

to be your one thing.

Contestants sashay up

in twos,

applause hits the invisible roof,

and I descend the catwalk

just behind you

as sad wind traces me

with its fingers.

You have formed other alliances.

Inhabitants lurk

in the trees,

wait for night,

they sing a one-note song

and creep so close

that I can hear them texting.

Back home, it was called backstory

or how we thought we knew

each other,

but now I think you gave me bad intel

on the ways we are here,

static in a feedback loop,

stranded like frowns

on a plate.

Take a full cup, fill it more,

that’s me. Drink it.

Now we know what it is to be each other.