Castaway
The decaying wood of my wrecked ship has
bleached white as bones
since I washed onto this god-forsaken shore.
The sound of the surf calls back
the terrifying shriek of the winds,
the pounding shards of rain,
wood beams cracking, separating.
Losses were heavy -
my crew,
yes, my son.
I can see his eyes – wide with shock –
and hear the roar
as the storm pulled him back and under the water.
I left on this voyage with the daring
that had launched so many successes
risked so much - lost it all -
more than all.
Should I have ever sailed forth?
Did I launch too late in the season?
Were my carefully drawn maps faulty?
Did I follow the wrong guide star?
When first marooned, weighed down by grief and guilt –
the ballast for this strange, new life –
I stayed close by the boat,
raging on the beach each night until I lost my voice,
unable to move forward, taking shelter in the hold,
fighting the rats for the remaining stores.
After a time, there was no choice but to wander out, seeking
fresh water, foraging for food,
hunting even though I barely had the heart to take my prey.
I moved slowly, tentatively exploring the jungle
whose dark canopy
held quick-moving shadows, ghostly whispers,
the calls of strange birds.
The further I explored, it was clear other castaways
had arrived before – bits of torn fabric caught on thorns,
strange markings on trees,
remains of long-extinguished campfires.
It gave some small consolation but in truth
I never saw another face, nor heard another human voice.
I was truly alone, disconnected
from any news of my former life.
Looking out over the ocean,
I knew there were no rescuers coming,
no voyage home and
without my son
no life to return to if somehow there were.
Touching the shipwreck’s ribs
as I had so many times before
gave me no comfort.
Looking up, I begged the sun
to incinerate the wood into white ashes.
I wanted to watch them mix with the sand
and wash away with the tide
leaving no sign for any passing ships,
no marker to my life’s folly.
Trying not to disturb the air
Sitting on the patio
watching the reflection of the lights
treading water on the pool’s surface
sipping the last glass from the
bottle of Sancerre in the refrigerator.
Our dog is concerned.
He lays near me not moving
raises an eye my way every so often.
I’ve been gone all day
and the routines of his life are upended -
when he’s fed, when he goes out,
when he can demand to be scratched and rubbed.
He sniffed my pant legs suspiciously when I came home
confused by the chemical smells of the hospital –
disinfectants, antiseptic soap, latex, plastic --
and kept looking at the door expecting you to enter.
Like the dog, I sit quietly.
If we don’t move the air particles too far out of place
God forbid not drop anything
maybe we won’t draw attention to your absence
won’t trigger some mechanism
ignite some reaction – chemical, nuclear or magical --
that makes this temporary present permanent.
If I could, I would hold my breath until you come home.
Not wanting to go back alone to our bed just yet
I sit a little longer keeping a watchful eye
to make sure the lights stay afloat
as ripples across the pool threaten
to push them underwater.
Finishing the job
The refrigerator had been floated up, spun around and deposited on its back.
The raku sculpture of the woman with the fish on her thigh
had been lifted off the nail on which it hung and
deposited standing upright on the floor leaning against the wall,
a ceramic pot swept into the bathroom,
rare books strewn across the floor,
vintage furniture covered in mold,
a shelving unit with its sides fallen off teetered precariously
but still held up a television.
A nauseating brown color stained the walls five feet high
where flood waters had steeped for two weeks
in the apartment before receding –
a sepia tone version of the place we had fled.
What wasn’t underwater had been covered with mold.
A wet, rotting odor confronted me on my return,
permeating everything, making it hard to stay inside
for long without retreating outside to gulp fresher air.
The indestructible plastic lucky cat from San Francisco’s Chinatown
still sat on its shelf, waving its arm madly as if to say
I’ve been waiting for you; I knew you’d be back.
I walked into the bedroom.
The dresser we had lifted onto the bed for safety
had dissolved – panels and drawers strewn
like peony petals on the bedspread,
the jewelry box relocated from its place
on a shelf to the middle of the floor,
the closet shelving pulled out of the drywall, clothes in a heap.
The memory washed over me
of the call I had taken in this room the year before --
my wife telling me our son was dead.
Will? Our Will?
A stupid, reckless night
a fatal step backwards into interstate traffic
the image I never saw but can’t get out of my mind.
We thought we had gotten Will past
the suicide attempt, the two stays in psychiatric wards.
We thought we had gotten past the fierce clinging to him
the daily calls to make certain he was okay.
He had a new job, a new baby daughter,
things to live for.
We thought we could take a breath,
loosen our grip just a little
look away for even a quick moment.
I stood in the doorway and looked at things we once cared for
that were now just debris.
It felt like the flood had come to finish off a job left undone --
creating a wreckage of the exterior world
to match the broken one inside of us.
