By Hannah Lloyd Rindlaub


“Islanders go hard.”

Calloused feet.

Iron stomachs.

Trained by barnacles and brandy.


“My life, my lover, my lady.”

Not hard but waterlogged

Then rung.

Shipwrecked reckless.


We are brothers, bandits, bound.

Bonfires char dirt,

littered with memories, beer cans and butts.

Where the teenager falls in and out of love.


A full moon low tide

Reveal the subterranean lives

Of bikes that rode in, rusted

Spokes laced with kelp.


Sacred and profane.

Swan dives from miles high.

“Islanders go hard.”