Your return is temporary — just a few days
Or less. Your ship floats without anchor
or mooring to just let you off to breathe
the air. You regret selling your property
even though it seemed right to do.
It has accreted in value without you,
shame shame. The friends you knew wear
stone markers at their sites. You
survived them and their garden parties.
No, you didn’t come back for that—
you just came back. Everybody does.
This island infects us. There is a scent
stronger than our mother, father and home.
We come back to to inhale one last time.