Libby Sommer: Between the Islands of the Pacific

Between the Islands of the Pacific

Because by now we know everything is not so blue

out here.

The cities had tipped rubbish into the sea,

and we let them without even noticing.

Not even feeling our breathing clear

as gusts reaching ten knots cleaned up our days.

Not even. Today pure blue sky, blue sea,

out there the horizon drawing a line

below the clouds, the absoluteness of it. Nights

of diesel engines shuddering beneath us.

We lounge on chairs side by side on the deck.

At dusk, we stand at the railing of the ship as the sun

slips into the ocean. In the fresh sea air, their backs turned,

some raise a selfie-stick or light a cigarette while others

stand holding their breath.

Where can we go from here, and how?

Libby Sommer