We say no man is an island to keep bodies
away from carapace, arthritis from the world atlas.

Even when someone is an island, no one
has learned how to turn a body into a ferry, hairs into

life jackets. No life jackets on the island, the back
is the largest plateau to hang a tattoo,

to hold demurrals. It is the largest on the island
because the self cannot see it but assume.

Let’s assume the island is then colonized.
Peacocks open a spectrum of feathers to a noise

before they mate on the island in a foreign way. 
A can opener opens with memory. A satellite

scans the island, defines the circularity of such
memories. The other exists like toothpaste that

has double action. Island folktale: semi-closed
eyelids also show trust. Skin seen by one as skin is seen

by another one as commodities, island folktale
reinvented. Hence hips, chests, also commodities.

The island’s population grows as the self splits.
The second self shawls itself because the first self

self-actualizes too much. The island now rebranded
as The Land, its history hinging on mixology.

The second self becomes less anonymous by having
a job. Be a roulette dealer, a scarecrow that exiles luck.



"Archipelago" originally appeared in Sonora Review. 2014.