From the Drifting Islands

That sound you hear
Is not whales crying
Although
Centuries ago
That is what it was believed
To be

Women would come out to the shore
And search the horizon
For their sea-struck counterparts
Mourning the loss of a male

Ironically, they thought
Because their husbands were whalers
And so they had probably killed
Their own counterparts

But men often kill
Their own reflections
That is not unusual

But remember what I said
The sound you hear
Is not
Whales crying

It is the sound of shifting
And it comes
From the drifting islands

Out on the sea
There are islands
That never
Stay in one place

Every so often
They cross the sea
Moving to a softer place
Where the water is more welcoming
Because water is fluid
It changes

The temperature
The texture
And so it is necessary
To adjust one's position
If one is an island
And one can as an island
Change position

Occasionally things will wash up on shore
From the drifting islands

Shoes, socks, bracelets
Band-aids, cracked glasses, half-lit candles
Floating on a saucer

Driftwood--of course
Popcorn machines
And once, just once

A baby

I was there the day the baby washed up
In a clean, wicker basket
Like Moses
Down the river

It was late in the day
So all the tourists
And the couples
Had gone home

I was kneeling by the river
And I heard a sound
Like the shifting of the islands

But when I looked down the beach
I saw it

That little basket
And I knew the cry I heard
Really was a cry

Not of the mourning whales
But of a child

Growing up
We heard that babies would wash up
From the drifting islands

You were supposed to bring them to the police
And then they were never heard from again

But I had other plans

I took that baby home
And raised it as my own

And I never noticed anything wrong with him
Until he got older

Then I saw the shifting in him
The stepping from foot-to-foot
The restlessness
Just like the islands
He came from

Finally, one day he left
Needed a stronger foundation
Or maybe the water got too warm

Either way, he's gone
And so now
I walk the beach again

Waiting for the sound
The sound of something moving
Something needing
A new direction
A place
To rest

Waiting for something
To drift
Right into my arms