Leveler Poetry Journal
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There is nowhere to hide

on this island. Not from the sea; it walks its salt blue


right down in the gape of our throat. We made our home here.

Learned to sweep the sky


out of every cobwebbed corner; placed driftwood skeletons

in all of our children. Raised them right. Named them Coffin.


Gave the sons to the sea; gave the daughters

to the widow’s walks. Stitched grief


into every seam. There is no way to mend the net;

no putting the catch of the day


back in the ocean. We chased the barnacled whales

all the way to the ice frontier, their skulls sodden


with lamp-oil. We can’t bring them back.

We can’t bring anyone back.

Jenny Williamson