The Quiet Island
There is a quiet Island in New York where
No one lives — just block upon block fast
Asleep with no lights or stores or addresses.
Museums and offices lurk in the remains
Of the skyline — billboards drift downtown
As bridges yawn across the graying water.
The Mayor calls the Island a Celebration
Of Progress — the Commissioner says it’s
A Testament to our Heritage and Development.
When I can’t sleep, I sneak across the bridge
Into the twilight — I say your name and it dances
Through the streets, ricocheting out across the Sound.
I found a stone in the woods
Beneath a ragged tree
With bone white bark.
I held the stone to my ear
And it murmured
Like an aimless brook.
I warmed the stone in my hands
And it beat like your heart —
A traitor's heart.
I dropped the stone at the tree
And its roots sucked up the poison
Throbbing through the soil.
I left the stone in the dirt
And watched as an apple
Blossomed on a branch.
Gavin Corey lives in Boston. Previously, his work has appeared in Writing Knights Press, The Hydeout, Haiku Journal, and LIEF Magazine. He is the author of the chapbook “Stranger People.” You can e-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org.