I left the island because of the wind
that flung across the dunes year after year
unsettling sand that scoured my skin
partially burying the blue-doored cabins.
I would traipse the beach for hours
echoing its shore, eyes gritted, eliciting tears.
I became flat like the island
days settling themselves beneath my ribs
in the soft place that folds away loneliness.
And when I left, they sang enchantments
against what I would become
and lit a necklace of fires along the hills.
Even now they say: I remember him
on a blue bike by a billowing field.
Surely he was happy then. I am beginning
to understand where I am happiest.
Each night, patiently, grass at the window
tries to explain. The flame grows easier
to love, the wind stirring the streets
reminding me why I deserved to leave.