Island Life

A lot of people in this neck of the woods, or neck of the waters, live on islands and commute via ferries, and other people have "vacation property" on the islands. I like to visit islands sometimes, but I don't think I'd like to live on one, no matter how big it is. I get a little uneasy, eventually, on islands, so I suppose I should be extra-careful about being ship-wrecked. Here's a poem that springs, I think, from that uneasiness:

Island Fever

There’s not enough of here. We’ve memorized
the coastline, and we plan for surprising storms.
Native birds are too big, loud, and bright
for the venue. West manufactures
“beautiful sunset” every day. Our drinking-
water smells of boiled crabs. Every porch
sags with rot. We loathe tourists because
they fall for all the island’s gimmicks, including
sand, palm trees, and our menus. No one ever
meant or was meant to live here: Long-boats
of natives’ ancestors got shoved here in
an anomalous storm. Later arrivals were
victims of delusional cartographers. Well,
we’re all cousins now, so what's an islander to do?

Like us, our children
play with their food, make islands of mashed
potatoes in seas of gravy. This pile of rock
is slightly higher than the reefs—a volcanic
achievement that’s become a “romantic
get-away.” We don’t wish the ocean ill
but want just once to walk in any
direction on an aimless plain and not
bump into anything soon or
something we knew was coming, and
we know something like a tsunami is coming,
or a hurricane, or the theoretical tourist that will make
the total weight of the island's population too much.

Hans Ostrom Copyright 2007