If after Days on the same island, then it's our timeline I ask

Laura Madeline Wiseman

in the morning as the final storm clears, the

next   island   glimmers   across   the   water.

Neither sunk by war nor earthquake, neither

grinding with  the energy of  commerce nor

flagging the surrounding  harbor  with ships,

its empty welcomes.  Is   that   the   Island   of

Nothing?  You open the map,  find where  we

are,  and  nod.   Nothing  Island,  you say,  I

forgot.  Then you lie down to sunbathe in the

sand. I try,  We’re  not  far  from  the Pillars of

Hercules.  You begin to snore.  When  I was a

teen,   I  taught  yoga  at  the  downtown   Y,

commuting there by bike. When you were a

teen,  you lifeguarded at the Atlantis  County

pool, taught little  kids to blow bubbles,  and

proctored first swim tests.  You were  a  small

town god,  a maven of the  silent  splash  after

the dive. The  only  place to  disappear was a

human-made lake.  Did  you long to cross into

where most  drown, but some,   like you  could

breathe?   You   murmur  in   your   sleep,   a

broken    string      of      sweets,     Life Savers,

Smarties,   Now and Laters,    old concessions of