Fire Island
For Elizabeth Bishop
by Sofia Bagdade
My grandfather built me a room
hanging off the house, a limb of glass.
Even through the thickened panes, the waves
roared and tamed the sway of wild grass,
struck and blazing with 5:00 fire.
We hushed, only melted tangerine was left.
Hiding was easy among the grass,
pixies brushed my face with wings of glass
Beneath soaked deck boards, I made a room
of purple daydreams, caught on fire
burning, crackling, until the slanted rays left,
Welcoming sticky nightfall in humid waves
And the smell of steam and hot butter filled the room,
My mother danced around the stove in a dress made of sea glass,
As grandma’s hands cradled the fire,
And I reached only to their kneecaps, green with stained grass
As they salted and stirred in lulled waves
and the lobster boiled in the pot, his claw leaned left
Their faces glowed around the table in waves
of flickering light, the shadows left
and returned like cycles of conversing fire,
Her smile shone like glass,
stretching and pure. Balmy laughter soaked the room,
dew drops landing on tender grass.
And when the rain came down in tendrils of wet glass,
The spine of that little room
Shivered and bent, as if tossed by a wave
As I peeked through the meshed canopy of fire,
circling my bed of patched grass,
in rings of warmth. Despite the surge, the heat never left
Until memories were auctioned, fragile as thinned glass
Stolen light gasped, swallowed by darkened waves
And the eggshell room
Was cracked, shards packed up in stiff boxes of dried grass.
A pile of colorful ashes, remnants of the Fire
And given no choice, no soothe for bruises, we left.
You could always hear the steady whisper of the waves,
Even as we stared at the burnt island from the ferry, on fire.
And I think of the once-mine glass room, I know I’ve never left.