Page 16 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #7

7
Isle of Iona
Islands beyond islands, so many we can’t remember their names. We trudge to the hilltop hoping
we’re close to the sea, and find another hill
swathed in grass prickly as coral. Out so far nobody would find
us for days, they wouldn’t even know
to look. My feet crunch through bushes
and sea holly and he tells me he doesn’t believe his brother is in heaven
he doesn’t believe there is a heaven what we do here now is the point, he says his back cutting a line against the sea.
He admits he doesn’t know, that I could be a flower eventually, or
a seal. But either way, my body will
be folded into the crumbled soil,
like his brother, how at first everyone will remember us, and tell our stories
in bars and living rooms, then they
will die, too. We will harden then soften on a hill like this.
I don’t know if I can have children.
If I do, I don’t know if they will be healthy, if they will outlive us.
I want another chance at light. Why do I need him to admit there will be more for us?
He doesn’t even try to believe
in heaven. And he is the only one I know who is not afraid.
eMily Mohn-slate