I reach out– longing for connection.
When surrounded by seagulls, I look

for the first semblance of friend. Not
that we have much to anchor anymore,

conversationally. Dolzani’s English class.
I didn’t read assigned books. Didn’t

become The Old Man and The Sea. So
many years to make safe passage. My voice

was a heavy, closed hardcover, whispering
through class as pages turned, and here

I am, strange and estranged, gazing out
over the Pacific, waiting for your response

on my seashell phone. Any sign of humanity
meant I would try. You never answer, anyway.

I unmoor my flaming boat to the coming
monsoon, scrape my hand against burning

plank to gather first ashes. I write my name in
soot. I hold my breath and swoosh into the next

life: the hold-on-to-me, the help-me, the drive-
aimlessly-through-your-twenties until arriving,

at last, at another confused island, a new
decade of drifting through cloudless nights.

(originally published in Cacti Fur, Summer 2021)