POEM by Sarah Stansbury (3 of 3)
Ithaca has become just too easy to get too, thinks our Brandy,
And misses the time when the sea was sparse with furtive communists
Adrift with their pallets of potatoes and guns.
The island that rose out of foam for her, to slip her figs
And paths of fronds, all that green now breeds in otherness.
A silver magpie has discovered something greedy,
Talons to dig with. A pack to reel along the coast in, as
The white-blue crash of the water swallows the past
In with its mourning women. The calling wind,
The black scarves, all are overrun by purveyors.
Ozymandias smiling in postcards. Plastic goods,
Tours, trinkets, each an insurance against the lives
Of private stories. There are sails in the breeze
Dispelling messages now. Brandy thinks, how we've ruined the view
That more people may see. Thinks
We are going to lose everything.