Islanders
We maroon ourselves
on tiny plots, worlds
shrunk to fit. Our terrain
is difficult, our waves
choppy. We have few
natural resources, we live
on what we forage,
hoard air and water.
We grow turf, hide
in the long grass
so no one can find us,
develop thousand-yard
stares, our eyes fixed
on the horizon, waiting
for a ship that never docks,
the off-island always beyond
reach, always in sun,
like a gem behind glass.
We put seas between us,
we won’t be rescued.