Isle of the Dead
by Kristian Sendon CorderoThe waves wash in corpses together with broken shells,
dirt, and sea leaves whose roots bring skin rashes.
The bodies have been bitten off in parts, fish and jellyfish
ate away some of the ears, sucked out eyes, one infant was legless.
The price of fish went down, prawns were given away. On the shore,
the boats lay stranded, or had lifted nets of bad dreams together
with matted hair—very dark, black.
When the sun told the hours again everything became numbers
and documents once more: names of the dead, number of survivors,
company or government assistance for the injured and the orphaned,
the captain’s license, the date of the tragedy, testimonies.
On the island where some bodies were found, a corpse had bewitched
someone, who then began healing the sick, foretelling again
the return of the missing. Crosses multiply on each date, signs
of waiting and the continuing wake among empty graves.
