Jack favors hunting and its savage reward of meats.
—notes on Lord of the Flies

Sand and refinement get you lonely
on this desert island, sending out smoke
signals in hope of rescue. Nature’s
a camouflage of rusty palm trees, mosquito
breeze, winding snakes in the bush.
No conch to blow saxophone.
The Bible and Shakespeare—your radio prize—
don’t give what you need—what you
need can’t be read. Night’s an eerie
savage sound; slaughter of sow keeps you
civilized, beast tucked firmly below the belt.
Fitting into grainy voids is what you do best.
Survivor, you’ve boated, been islanded before.
You know the way, the weight of water’s slosh,
knocking eardrum twenty four-seven, month
after month. You know memory’s flat as the world,
hard to find, easy to erase. Your skin’s wet
wood, alone, umbilical-free. For what it’s worth,
for all your trouble, crossing is how you got over.

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