THE ISLAND OF EXULTATION AND FORGETFULNESS

Crossing Death's Door again we're joined

starboard by Lazlo the dachshund,

and the girls, River and Ginger,

Lazlo's tucked in a traveling purse

and growling, the girls' fingers poke

his black eyes and snout, he sneezes

and as we pass the white pelicans

scooping across the surface, aliens

to this climate, the girls' mother

implores "Come into your own space,

River, come back to your space!"

We sail past the private island,

idyllic shoals of someone's sacred

sugary sands, the mother's ring

beside us a diamond cluster

that shimmers evanescent rainbows

splashing everywhere like God's eye.

When we turn at the marker and

rollick and roll with the waves and

Lazlo the dachshund yelps, and River,

in her own space, and now Ginger,

spilling out of her space, giggling

at the bedazzlement just as we

enter the green calm of the harbor

and all of the phenomenology dulls

to the boredom of idle buoy bells

and flags snapping on the horizon,

hair whipping across our eyes. Abstract

pools of green and cool backwash air

on the pier. This is nothing like

the myth, the older story, the unknown

returning. This is you coming back

to your space, my dear, pennants flapping,

ferry engines rumbling and the steel hull

shuddering to stillness as you dock,

the smell of fish and diesel fuel,

oil-slick water and spiders, the taste

of honey and hay, of the girls' laughing

at the circling sea girls, and Lazlo

growling from his purse, all banished

from the mainland, seeking exile

on the island of exultation

and forgetfulness.