Hollow Bones

At dawn I ride the updrafts,
unbuttoned from land.
Below, jandals drip and dry
upside down on rusted wire fences,
rubber curling, straps bleached thin.
The lagoon shivers under cat’s-paw gusts.
I remember when it lay glass-green,
cool as pandanus shade at midday,
when reef flats bruised to indigo at dusk
and parrotfish rasped coral into moonlit sand.
Heat rose clean then, buoyant,
lifting my breastbone,
a smooth hold of air under my wings.
I could glide for hours.
Now I bank and circle.
The reef pales like an old papao
left half-buried above the tide line—
fibres splitting, paint flaking,
sun gnawing it down to nothing.
My wings work harder.
The air drags.
Diesel coats the back of my throat.
Sweet rot of fallen peach frangipani
mixes with a sour, breathless stink
from mangroves drowning upright,
roots clenched, blackened,
fingers reaching where the air is gone.
I trace the coastline inland.
Tin roofs flash like fish bellies.
I watch aunties lift their hems—
cloth darkening, calves slick and shining—
step back, then back again,
their voices thinning
as the water keeps coming.
The next day fishermen launch their boats.
Sun spills gold on the water.
And I fly—
watching, remembering,
carrying the weight of what I’ve seen
in my hollow bones.

Featured Art: Sleeping Bear Dunes, Betsy O’Neill