The Artist's Lot

Here’s to the volcanic events
That created the barren islands
(stumbling, ugly geography) in my memories.

Once, those ominous structures were corrosive;
I could not look at them without the edges of my eyes peeling.
Salted medicines intended to balm
The wounds were inadequate against the fierce pain.

I used all my natural defenses to protect myself,
But it was not enough.
The islands were too near
My hands and knees are scarred from their razor rocks.

I struggled on the islands until time
Passed through, and though it didn’t heal all wounds
It did pull me away, gently, from their pain.
Distance became my greatest ally.

Finally, gradually, I completely separated
Drifting out of those keen waters
I moved on to new lands, new events
(though, if I paid attention, the islands were always on the horizon).

Recently, I wandered back into their territory.
It took me some time to get my bearings
Because what once was barren was now coursing with life.

I climbed onto the shore
And the rich green edges bit (ever so slightly) into me
And only then did I recollect that hurt.

I soon realized that the teeth of the islands had dulled.
The reminiscent ache was there,
But the pain that germinated
Was something I could hold in my hands.

I shaped my sorrows into stones
Built memorials, bridges, stepping stones, with them.
No longer are my islands separated.

I come and go as I please,
Taking from their rich, grief-watered gardens,
These bitter-sweet fruits, (unique to my islands)
and share them with you.