I let the word insula slip around my mouth like an oyster,
yes, like the oyster you said you would serve me
in a brand new converse trainer.
The oyster is a harbour – same colours, close up or far away,
same smell, same wetness – for me to dock my tongue.
And this harbour has an island attached –
you promise me an insula. Meaning island.
To insulate oneself – becoming island.
I wonder what kind. Will it have a well,
a house, or simply be
an outcrop on which my madness
will go unwitnessed.
I stand on this rock with my converse
and my oysters and I stare at the waves’ crazing
at the black crucified forms of guillemots
at the far shore. It starts to rain.
You would do all this for me? I ask.
No, for the Prize, he says.