islands

we called them islands:
those little deposits of 
pebble-stones & silk that
collected in the middle of
the creek 

grass growing tall & wild 
with the heat of may

check your hair for
ticks in the light of
the down stairs bathroom

ceiling fan whispering
to the mirrors that you 
& me were explorers

people keep asking me
where i'm going & what
i'm doing with my life

& i want to tell them
that i'm collecting islands

the smallest ones i
can find

folding them up like
brown paper napkins or
amusement park maps

some are reluctant

i have to tell them stories
about how gentle & 
how careful i'll be with them

extending an arm & helping
them out of the creek water

their hair made of
short scraggly roots

dripping as they test
out their legs

i take islands to lay underneath
the oak tree at the play ground:
the one i always write about

i go back to check on
it whenever i visit my
parent's house because i'm
scared that one of these
times it will be gone

leaving a tiny yellow sticky note 
that says "moved on"
where it's massive thighs
once dug into dirt

the island climbs the shadows
of trees

she falls in love with
me without effort & 
i tell her about all
the times i walked on her
& how gentle i was

i show the island where
the girls used to sit
to watch boys play soccer
on the playground

where i used to hold caterpillars--
letting them crawl up
my shoulder until they 
reached my neck

my love for the island
is probably selfish 

i want her bodies 
for myself-- 
to barefoot-discover them
again & again

we walk down to the end of
the trail where we once
built a bridge from 
fallen tree trunks &
the island takes me in the water

she tell me to lay down
on my back & tall grass
begins to grow from
my chest

stones in my joints turning
gritty as i let it happen

she tells me 

this time i will explore you

& i let loose all my joints

no longer floating but touching 
the bottom of the creek 

her feet are surprisingly soft
& new like the necks of white 
mulberry flowers

she crouches & writs her 
name in the sand

i grow-- first trees & then 
waves & then salt water
& then bird tracks 
on my clavicle 

we take turns like this 

becoming & un-becoming

tomorrow i will be the girl
with the brown hair down
to her waist

& you can lay face down
holding your breath beneath
the water