It wasn’t a bind but an anchor.
The island adrift, shoved, now pushes through dark waters.
Against the slap of waves.
Slaps of a partner, rejected.
Slaps to wake a thrashing friend.
I’d rather watch those waves than face what’s happening on land. My eyes scour the clifftops for beacons but there are none lit yet.
This week, my friend’s 8 year old daughter had to comfort her Polish classmate, cornered and questioned ‘why haven’t you fucked off home yet?’ Children.
For the first time in my life, this week, I’ll loudly declare I’ve not a single drop of English blood in my veins. I’m Austrian, Russian, Czech, generations old, jugged and corked. Come tell me to go home. Slapped silly, I don’t recognise anywhere as home right now.
The salt I taste from the spray of the sea, from the chewing of my lips.