Shipwreck

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They said, tell us about your island,

whether you miss the palms

and mermaids singing,

rubbish like that.

 

Grant us in sound bites

some saga of shipwreck;

ignored by an ocean,

years sifting time.

 

I was unsung till they came,

armed with notebooks and theories.

Fame is when even the

dead shout your name.

 

Crusoe, they said, you’re back

from the deep;

tell us how wretchedness feels

(as if they don’t know);

 

what is it like to be saved?

I answered that exile

is stranger than fiction.

Rescue is not the promised end.

 

Loss doesn’t fade

when hope is sighted.

For some, there will always be

fresh footprints in the sand.