By: Christine Jackson

Key West spins away
from a mainland
where it has never fit.
My life no longer fits.

My mind roams where
trees with silver leaves
rustle in dappled light,
kestrels cry,
and lemon air soothes
the yearning
in their tiny hearts.

The road to Key West unspools,
bleached and white-hot,
across shallows swirling
with evil currents.
The water cuts channels
through mangroves
masked like stealthy warriors.

Shadow-ragged paupers of clouds
huddle in a turquoise sky.
Kestrels glide in formation,
swooping in arcs and whorls,
spelling out secret codes.
Earth-rooted, I plod across dunes,
a wheezing truck loaded
with clanking parts.

Bridges ribbon
across an azure horizon
for a thrill.
Still,
a deep current unsettles
my unlit mind
like whirring wings
of an unseen bird with razor talons.