They Will Take My Island

Soon, they will dismantle the fish,
the banana stands.  

For a long time now, the hotel bar
at the end of the pier has stood
vacant and closed. 

The far point, from where
on so many nights I stood, watching
the lights of the night fishermen—

soon even that will sink from view. 

And my own house. It, too, will
be lifted from the root, so that,

only four round stumps, beneath it,
will remain. Each one so remote,
finally, from the form they bore

and from each other, that they will
dream that they are trees, bearing only

emptiness between them. 

I will climb to the highest point. Wait
for the water to rise. 

For the lights of the fishermen to
blink out, one by one, like stars—

long after the fishermen have all been

Then, I, too, will be dismantled.

My skull—through which once, as above
the stuccoed walls, the brass band played—

will empty; my heart, picked clean from its
root, will leave the four corners of my body
at last so remote from one another that
they, too, will dream that they are trees;

emptiness no more an emptiness
between them.

Johanna Skibsrud is wide awake, dreaming.

Published On: September 25, 2015
Permanent Location:

Volume 8, Issue 3
September 25, 2015

Via Toronto

an Introduction

Paul Vermeersch

Penguin Suicide

Shazia Hafiz Ramji

beached poem

Shazia Hafiz Ramji

watched by the drone

Dani Couture

They Will Take My Island

Johanna Skibsrud

Maestro Bartolome Reconsiders his "Creation of Eve"

Johanna Skibsrud

Lacking the Wind's Higher Reasoning

Canisia Lubrin

Postcard from the volcano

Kilby Smith-McGregor

Taking off your glasses

Kilby Smith-McGregor

Feb 12, 2001 - Present

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7


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