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You tower over me, hold my hand
and take me to the part of the island
furthest from the government wharf
where the boats dock and depart
You hold my hand and sing
some foolish song

“Girl in the salt-house

salt-House, salt-house
Girl in the salt house
all day long
Girl in the salt-house
salt-house, salt-house
down the back of Ocean Pond.”

Your singing drowns
the keening of the foghorn
the last warning blast
of the Lady Anderson
smothered only slightly by fog
as she retreats from Red Island
and vaporizes in the haze

You save me from the catastrophic static
of the ship–to-shore radio spitting out reports
crackling and sputtering in decreasing frequency
as she sails too far out from the shore
until finally there is a cardiac arrest of news

Your tune cocoons me momentarily
in a misty shroud that absorbs the shock
and delays the pain that must come later
when they try to explain all that is happening

Somehow, now it is easier
if – as she is moving away from me
I am moving away from her also…


turn the page: Red Island Rocks


Mary Duffy
Paddy Barry

notes on the process


. .BluePrintReview - issue 27 - Synergetic Transformations