SORTING STUFF
Andrew Robinson
Come shipwreck the most unexpected
things become useful, desirable
in ways they were not, or would not have been
but for this big event. Not so much
the obvious: tools, staves, cloth, writing
materials, ammunition, hoops -
most of these can be made; all of these
foreseen, inventoried; just you read
Robinson's Island, how young Kreutznaur,
rich in Yorkshire grit, put in some graft
finding not just stores but his dog too.
The hard bit's the edge, the cutting edge,
the steel blade. Except even for that
standard desert island providence
yields sharpened shell, pumice, flint, shrapnel.
The true surprise I find is rubbish.
Bird-nested reels of cotton or line.
Before, they were cheaper to throw out.
Now these are all I have. Even one
needle without an eye to pass through
I salvage, knowing it will find its
use one day or serve at least to hold
the memory that it, before this
intervening discontinuity,
had proper use. So here I find
myself in a silly hat sorting
this tangled box on the beach. The reels
all rumpled, skeins escaped their paper
sleeves; bits of funny things in sewing
my time. The mother's touch you used to
work this box with was so soft it's left
no mark I can tell, or if it has
the wreck has washed it out. Not even
the salty smell of you stays although
the memory alone of your taste
lingers like, in parting, touch. All I
can do is sort and store. The island
is larger than I feared. While I have made
progress in exploration, although
there is no thread I can tie to your
finger and follow to find your back,
these bobbins clack as if they were bone.
Bone fingers, stripped by the working brine.
