Desolate

I want to build an island with my salty blood and live there
Make a fire and burn the trees down until it’s desolate
Haunt a cave with my inner demons and storm the beach with my latent fears
I want to live where boats can’t sail
The radar misses it
A volcano built it, never noted by geologists or marine biologists or environmentalists
And it sat there collecting seeds of many kinds
Some nice and some just parasites
And it grew trees, moss, mushrooms, rats, bushes and weeds
And it grew me

This island made from mud, from my salty blood
And I decided to hide it so no boat could find it
And I decided it wasn’t worth it to write HELP on the beaches
Or burn black smoke for the airplanes and rescue procedures
I decided I didn’t care to tell anyone where I was going
Nor tie my boat down to keep it from drifting
No, now it’s just me and my gentle breezes
And my frightful storms that scare the beaches
And my white fire burns wet wood like coals
And my hidden talents creep in termite thickened logs
I save them for when my scuttling beach hugging luncheons have all been plundered of their meat
I save them for after the storms cast away the last of my precious, milky, motherly coconuts
After the hot sun has left the breeze stale and my fires have burned down all the trees
And I realize there’s no one to hear my cries now, my boat’s drifted off and no one knows I’m here
And I’m left desolate

But I feel that breeze again
And the critters creep from their hollowed logs, fat from larvae and all sorts of little things that burrowed deep beneath
And as they fed on my secrets, I feed on them, digest my demons and excrete angels that sweep my ash and pack it down to paper then fold it up and mix in sand until they've built a sail
And I set off again, to another unknown island