Midsummer. The sky’s again contused
and cloudless, still dizzy with mirages
heaving on patches of surviving grass,
on scattered heaps of backyard crates,
on the rust-gnawed remains of a Firebird
I dig through. I exhume and lift a carburetor
to my ear, shake it softly like a seashell,
and hear unexpected waves crackling
against themselves. There are hungry seagulls
squatting motionless in the air, cruise ships
horning their way punctually into port,
sunburnt tourists unfolding their bodies
like beach chairs, flinging their foreign laughs
and lingo at the gurgled crash of foam.
Like all things imaginary though, this scene
wasn’t built to hold, so I grip the serrated sides
more maraca-like, nauseate the shore
till my hands begin to ache, till the sea
regurgitates archipelagos of thrown plastic,
dead fish and sailors, legends of shipwrecks
the moon-drunk tides have anchored to asterisks
of sand; every message-in-a-bottle backwashed
like an oil spill. I bend down, pick them up,
and like God after every plague, every flood,
survey this altered version of my backyard.
What is paradise but the history we never see,
themed hotels, glossy strips of restaurants
and palm trees? An island easier to picture
than this accidental scrapyard, stacked
and used-car parts I try to salvage, dragging
out slabs of jagged steel as if they were shark
victims, as if I were here to save them,
to bring back a world I imagine
one day will believe in me.