I do not have to be a wild creature to run away from the cricket inside myself.
I sail to an island. I am facing the wind and the strings are silenced.
My grandfather appears eyeless. In dreams, skin grows
from under his eyebrows and over his nostrils and he glows.
If I am clutching bialy and a slab of salt, he nods and dissolves
like sugar cubes, like pop rocks. That was last year. Twelfth grade,
have you forgotten what a star looks like? A small fisherman of a devastated craft
cupping sea water and wetting his lips. Birdwatchers hold him
in their binoculars. He can’t be that sea bird. No one knows his arms;
however frail, they only hang from their sockets.