This light that walks on water could be mistaken
For a savior, for salvation
That can only come from naming unnamed things.
A place will be set at the table for the other
Ones still able to say, It is salt
And potassium that sings blood’s Kyries
In the caves and grottos of
Body’s mythology. You will see it as it comes to shore.
But in fact, the Island is a daughter
Made from whispers and the hum
Of sun and moon light on water, the lisps and whistles and roars
Of wind’s discovered form just before
It dies. In the stories, ghosts and lies
Of loved ones linger on the tongue
Like leaves soaked in a brine of sea
Turning from one shade to another
Shade of black. Their footprints lead away
From land’s solidity. Yet something beneath the skin
Remembers what mirrors forget and sings
After each sailor’s suffering with laughter
That refuses to regret the blue and green refractions
In the coruscating crystals of their eyes.
Is it a myth that this is paradise?
Lee H. McCormack has been resident of the dank and moldy primal forests of West Tisbury for 32 years. There are reports that he has been seen, usually from a great distance, through high-octane vision-magnifying devices.
