Őland
(islands east of the Swedish mainland)
We sail past rocks that glaciers
rubbed round, so the square story
goes. Round heads of old monks,
slick heads of seals sleeping on
black-boulder islands.
We’re sailing to a land, Åland.
It belongs to water, a semi-nation of Swedes
governed by Finns, its very-own flag
air-snapped by unconquered winds.
Three old Swedish men, drinking beer
this early morning, mutter
stories of boats, ships, water, and things
that go wrong. “Panama,” they say.
And “Gävle.” “Titta,” they say: Look,
and we pass the rocks past Őland.
The rocks pass us, looking. Things can’t
go wrong with rocks but can go
wrong on them. White swans
fly by. Earth never stops whirling—
so grave story goes. “Ibland,” the men
say. Sometimes. For Ő, which is island,
say O but with tongue lifted to middle,
an island the vibrations flow past
and out through the O into air.
Å is just oh, and oh is just water.
In Waterland, land becomes a sought-after afterthought:
“Oh. . . . Land.” Ibland. Åland. Őland.
1994/2021
