[Michael Cantor]

The Old Camp at Plover Island

The charred bones of the house
and the blackened hearth
squat between summer dunes:
dry, sun-blasted ruins
of an ancient shrine.
... Withered sea-kelp lines the beach.

Somebody lived here once, bound
flesh onto these bones.
Fishermen? Whalers?
Perhaps a clam digger’s family,
young and strong.
Or scavengers, using false beacons.
... Falcons dive at rabbits in the marsh.

Was this a tight house in winter,
compressed and warmed by snow?
Did those who lived here cling more closely so
face to face
flesh to flesh
mouth to open mouth
welcoming the snow’s weight
the long nights
the fire
and winter’s absolute silence?
... Beach grass threads among plum bushes.

Or did snow dance meanly through the cracks?
Did the wind invade and freeze the marrow
of cold and unloved lives?
Was the fire gray
and then turned all-consuming?
... The dumb surf rattles rocks and shells.

What happened here?
... Gulls hover, screaming at the sun.


Edits: S2L1/2 was put/flesh on