Decatur Island

By Laura Adrienne Brady

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We travel by boat: too small to be ferry, 
            too big to be a baby whale 
                        riding the blue. 

I want to hug my mother's long, pale legs, 
            kiss her safe skin, but already I have sprouted: a light-
                        lusting bean. So as we ride each bump and crest away from her 
wind swept line on the dock, I run my thumb
            for comfort over the winding tick of the camera wheel—
                        my friend a kaleidoscope of motion in the small box
                                    where the bow cuts the straight.

This island is for blackberries on the cusp
            of ripening. Its cabin floors are for sock-slipping;
                        pancakes must always be fried in butter. 

There are no cars here:
            only one old truck and the paths our feet pound 
                        in the grass, the burrs we pull and discard. 
Each stream of urine we release
            down wooded hillsides unlocks the perfume of mulch 
                        and pine for the very first time—
                                    or so I will remember.

At night, we swaddle our angles in dark raincoats,
            glimmering like wet blubber, and scurry from the frame
                        house onto the windy bluff, across the bubbled stone, 
through the hardy grasses, over the constellations 
            of sheep dung, all the way to the end where the sea 
                        heaves histories against the cliff. 

When the light tag game begins—searchlight a glowing cut 
            through the inky cool—on knees, 
                        on bellies, we squirm as selkies 
over the rough and bristle, across the squish of droppings, 
            brined by our own sweat,
                        our strings of muffled giggles. 

We have whispered the story of capture 
            and escape so many times 
                        we no longer need words: just moist taps 
and foreheads pressed one against the other
            in the summer dark
                        as we slither towards the porch.

This we know:
            the torch is danger; 
                        the origin, our destination. 

We practice how to home 
            without burning in the spotlight.

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Laura Adrienne Brady is a writer, educator, and singer-songwriter (known as Wren). Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Poet Lore, Brevity, EcoTheo, and elsewhere. Laura’s latest project, Pink Stone, is an album of original songs and an illustrated companion book. Explore her multidisciplinary work at LauraAdrienneBrady.com.

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