Where did we sleep before time betrayed us and I learned to carry my grief
like a carapace
under 

which I sometimes shelter?  Years ago, those boys slipped into the tortoise shell 
wearing yellow slickers
sleek

with sweat and island rain.  Lemon laughter resonated through the space
and likely loops,
lingers

there trapped in a layered, timeless echo.  They were our flock
of flightless cormorants, 
tea

stained and dolphin dizzy as they traipsed across the rocking decks at night
and boogied bare-
foot

among the blue footed boobies by day.  On an icy glacier they spied the Cotopaxi
Andean slinky fox
search

for a meal amongst the snowbound rocks and volcanic black.  The intrepid young travelers
leaned into stories
spun

by my brother, storyteller, weaver of wonder and masquerader of mischief,
skilled at finding
fun.

We loved those boys, and, beneath the Ecuadorian sun, we parented them before
our own baby
morphed

into a struggle, a sadness, a teen shaken and confused,
a lone individual
isolated

in a world that knows not how to encompass one so bright—an island self—a library learned,
art, books, and
cosmos.

– Amy Nocton