Jack Scott writes

Part II

Incongruous, yet fittingly,
we watched in knee-jerk empathy
as if real life were bleeding
from this grotesque travesty
cast in form of infant.
The odd aspect
of the atavistic spell
this baby-looking thing was casting
was that it affected in the same way
both of us at once.
As a couple we were not noted
for agreeing on a lot of things
or holding the same opinion
on anything in common,
(We were known to scrap a lot.)
yet we couldn’t seem
to tear ourselves away
from lingering at this wake,
raptly staring at the corpse
in unison.

This was attraction within repulsion,
stalemate: our stroll arrested,
we surrendered to the impulse
and waded to the island
sensing meaning,
impending like a scent,
a faint trail suspended in the air
like unseen smoke.
The island was silt-slimy, set apart
from parenthesis of mainlands,
a slug-trail consequence
of upstream people’s trash,
out of sight of upstream people;
out of their minds as well.
We didn’t talk,
did not acknowledge choice enacted
with uncommon joint consent.
On the island we were somber,
almost reverent
as if this earthen boat
were rendered sacrosanct
by its tiny visitor
on whom we were reluctant
to intrude.

The island’s saving grace
in tourist terms:
it was foliated,
an unplanned garden,
designed by chaos
in the midst of waterness.