I'm here on the picture perfect island. Blistering sun and rockface. UV protection and umbrella covering my ample flesh. A wide-brimmed hat masking my face. On my back under the penetrating light of the sky.
You're there on your own dark island, clutching the New York Times. Breathing the nervous sweat of people on the go, stalled underground. The electricity gone out.
We were once in love. Or so we confided to anyone at a cocktail party or coffee bar who would listen for more than two minutes.
I'm the one who sold us to the families as marriage material. As fodder for the grandchildren, who once produced, would take off on their own momentum. Their dust and ash engulfing us like a shroud. Becoming as we became undone.
You were the one who used us as a couple to further your career. Poker games and boys night out. Stabilized by my shadow in our box-like home. The condo, my sphere. A place to cook or clean or knit a sock. If only I'd known how. Days like dominos fell heavily on their sides. Till nothing was left standing.
It was the news of the blackout that brought you back. I have a five dollar plastic radio made slick by the sweat of my palm. I know you as sound bite as I knew you in reality. A distant static echo of manhood scarcely audible on the cliff. A survivor whose memory erodes against the sound of the waves.
