La Isla de Palabras

Quite past the world

Of complacency and blame

There is an island, wherefore

I travel, not everyday

Lest I get attached to the place.

I pluck words from the 

Thorny acacias, and watch

Their sharpness slowly goad

Into my hands.

I watch myself bleed.

I see the words I carefully plucked

Mix with the blood in my hands

To create poetry.

I sometimes wash the redness

The taste of raw iron -

With the sea, sometimes my tears, till

The salty aftertaste is all that remains.

And sometimes when tempests rage,

And I can't find safe shores

I lie down beneath the acacias

And witness the moonlight weave

Beautiful patterns on my hands-

That, come morning, have transformed

Into ugly callouses.