This Island Is Called Mull
My wife kneels with our sonin the moss. Our basketis hardly big enough to holdwhat we’ve found—oh what luck:
“They’re like buttons at first,”she tells him. “Then, they turn into trumpets—”
Sphagnum moss is like stars.The field of it constellates under us:Rose, Roscoe, me
Mushrooming again, Rosie and Conor find horn-of-plenty. Rahul compares themto tiny gramophone ears. We walk in pairs. We swim in the cold, cold loch.
I clumsily take off my wetsuit, spraying a shoeful of wateron Jenny—giggling—
At night, Linda roasts a chicken and we drink wine, clean the hornof-plenty: shear the stubs, open their passionate middles, part themslenderly, lay them on paper.
Tea is on, again. And rain. Rachel and Drew feed us cake, coo over Roscoe.I can’t understand their accents completely, like reading cursive letterswhen first you’ve…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2023