THE OTHER

Poetry by Vincent Peloso


 
Indian Island, Arcata, CA
Click photo for history

A road crosses a bay,
passes through two islands
but only intersects one.
The other is simply crossed.
A terrestrial support for the road's firm surface,
it is mostly wetlands anyway
with a hammock of trees a good quarter mile south
and a few houses scattered past that,
accessible only by boat.
Boats were the way the first people arrived.
Boats are still the best way.
You could walk the road, I suppose, if you wanted.
But it does not have sidewalks
or any safe place to stand.
The road does not have shoulders.
You could fly overhead if you owned a plane.
But who among us owns their own plane?
And where might you land if you did?
You could swim, if you can stand the cold
bay water, mud flats and ocean wind
from which this island evolved,
a tidal sandbar built of river deposits,
centuries of accumulation.
Nameless, but with many names.
Vague, but quite distinct.
Silent, but constantly screaming its story,
one long, painful, familiar wail
of exploitation, betrayal and fear
followed by years of silent neglect.
What do we fear more than ourselves?
What demons lurk in the mud?
The water is frigid.
My steps churn up sludge.
My feet sink like stones.
Oh, my heart, my cold, dark love.
Oh, my one, my only.

§ § §

Vincent Peloso lives in Arcata, California, works at the College of the Redwoods and for the past nine years has hosted The Mad River Anthlogy, a twice-monthly poetry program on KHSU radio, 90.5 f.m.

You can reach him at vfp1@humboldt.edu

This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal.

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