Way Up

Our island is small as a postage stamp,

my Mamma laughs,
our island could fit in the palm of one hand.
We have one tree and one field, a little house, a harbor
ringed with granite stones.
Our island clings to the green coast,
clings like meat to a mussel shell.

On Saturday morning my Daddy drives the old, white speedboat out,
way out to Halfway Rock
where the edge of the ocean drops away.
It is so far, my Daddy says
that the only ones who live there
are sea monsters, mermaids, and birds.
He stays all day and brings back fish
with musical names,
striper bass with yellow bellies.

Saturday noon my brother Danny and me go down to the cellar,
way down in the coal and pinewood dark.
We load our arms with white cloth bundles
and bring up ordinary things,
a loaf of bread, potatoes.
Mamma chops basil for pesto
and the smell creeps out into the sunlight.

At dusk from our front door to the field
Danny and I follow the fireflies.
We go up, way up
to the tip top of our one tree.
We mix up the fireflies and the evening stars.
We pretend we are up in a hot air balloon,
on a high-wire tight rope,
up on a tall bridge,
up, way up on a cloud.

We stay in the tree until Daddy comes back,
night falls, the fish sizzles,
and Mamma comes to the door.

Come back to the house for dinner,
she cries,
Come back, come back, come in.