the edge of childhood
BY S.MARIE LAFATA-CLAY
The island begins small
floating atop the surface of a postcard
opposite the greeting: wish you were here,
miniature mountains
nestled in my palm like stray children
without collar or curfew that huddle after dark
against the hull of the good old days,
listening to the sound of local fisherman
cutting nylon lines caught on
too many dead to hoist, appaloosa stars
stuck in the water like sunken
light bulbs without a switch. To pass time
we would chew the scraggle of our hair
& think of getting old, make a net
out of whatever we could steal—
knotting cherry stems with our tongues
only to become distracted
when we had to link them, mastering
the art of transformation
though I couldn’t stand
the bitter aftertaste. When we got caught
soaked in moonlight, mouths full of spit
& necks stiff as wolves
mid-howl, we called the moon a liar
because you can’t believe a damn thing
unless it’s full & even then
it’s nothing more than the shiner
of a drunk-blind troubadour, belly up & half way
under-water by midnight
because he knew too much. Ask me no questions
& I will tell the story of the sleepwalking
river that wrapped
around the valley’s throat, holding hands
with the empty-handed whose names
are now running water. Time & trespassing
often go hand & hand, break & enter while we sleep,
quiet as the Lord’s flashlight
in the hands of a search party,
Miguel’s Father stiff as an oar, the seam of his uniform
creasing the mountainside. I helped my best friend
make an inventory of what was lost:
a closet full of black coats, a magic kit,
Miguel, the boy who vanished and became a pallbearer
a man grown tired a fisherman
& the list goes on. This postcard is not so much
a postcard as it is a place to go
to be alone: I am here walking
over mountains of garbage that litter the edge
of the sea, listening like a balcony
above a condemned theatre.
The wind is an invisible chandelier, swooning
like a jealous axe that has yet to catch me
cheating death, postcard in hand
addressed to Miguel whose empty school desk
sat in the middle of the classroom
like a sun bleached skull,
pencils stuck in our fingers like fishing lures
as we tried to catch the right words in the shark
infested waters of get well cards
that pried our eyes wide open. I didn’t know
what to say so I drew
a map to the edge of childhood,
the land that makes strangers of us all.
