exile to the island of stones

i wait on the tip of your tongue.
gods i need a place to bury my heart.
i am a maker of time capsules.
the island in the middle of the creek grows.
maybe another girl boy creature
comes to move the rocks. i name my 
new country "whispered." 
a headline crosses the moon 
like an airplane. i am waiting for 
so many answers. where i will end up?
what will i do if i fail the next trial
that this horrible country gives me?
the island of stones is not safe it is just
a secret for now. secrets do not last long
in a land of cameras. i keep a stoplight
for a necklace. call my mother 
on the drive home. make fairy boats
out of my shoes. a candle in each. it is winter
but i am ready to feel the earth.
on my college campus years ago
there was a boy who refused to wear shoes.
one day was so so bitter cold & yet still
there he was, wind blowing the hairs
on the tops of his feet. i would invite him 
to the stone island along with
all my beloveds. folding chairs.
an airplane across the moon. 
we could make a pinata out of 
the terrible newspapers. invite everyone
we can find with a strange heart. never break 
the pinata. we love to invert a purpose.   
instead hang it from a tree. a symbol 
of transmutation. make the time last
for as long as we have it. is this what
it means to laugh at the end of 
the world? the island is small. we will fit
as many people as we can. wash our faces
in the creek water. sleep facing the stars.
one of us, a watchman, will take 
a fish net & scoop the airplane off the moon.