Revisionist Poetry – Creepy Island, v.2

An island rises from the black river,
its shoreline a gravel throat the current keeps.
A single lantern, unused, rocks on a stump;
mattress springs tangle with reeds like ribs.

People along the bank point and look away,
their voices small and sharpened by the cold.
Rumour skims the water like oil — thin, iridescent —
and children’s names come and go on the wind.

At night the island holds its breath: leaves counting
the minutes between bell and silence.
Something moves under the moon — not quite animal,
not quite the slate of story the town prefers.
We come close, then fold our hands; the river keeps what we do not ask for.