Rocky Cay
(c) Roberto Isaza

Rocky Cay
Major theft

Nestled in the gentle
Caribbean waves
1/3 of a mile
away from the beach
lies Rocky Cay.

A fifteen square foot
piece of coral reef
surrounded by
shallow, warm water
waiting for you.

You start your trek
with little trepidation,
will it get too deep?
Sea urchins, crabs,
strong currents?

But Rocky Cay calls
with a warm breezed
voice,
its breath
a mild brackish smell
of ocean,
of life.
You can’t deny.

You find yourself
under a foot
of blood-warm water
walking a golden sandbar
made by two
opposing currents
to form a bridge
to find yourself.
At the Cay
sunbathing, picnicking,
swimming, loving,
thinking
of times past,
of times yet to come.

Many a time
You swam around it
by it
a mile to home,
with a diving mask
alongside
the golden bridge
deep enough
to swim in.

Life swarming
around and through me
in a warm amniotic
fluid,
liquid moonshine
flowing through my veins.

You go with friends,
family, lovers.
Yourself.
You and your mind,
your hopes and misgivings,
joys and sorrows.

You also go there
at night
when no one’s around
bathed in moonlight,
sparkled stars
disturbed by your passage.
Naked you dive in waters
floating in the gentle breeze
knowing there IS a God
guiding the stars,
life, light, and you.

On the cay
and drying,
you smoke a drink or two
gaining sudden
insight perspective
of life, God,
and the universe.

You’ve been given
a precious gift,
a life to experience
in a state of being
that no other state
could give you.

One full moonlit night
you go to the Cay
with Mateo,
loyal German Shepherd
who’s shared life with you
for the past year.
Your friend, companion
Dog.

Arriving at the end
of the beach
from the darkness
of the coconut grove
you hear
the dry tchk-tchk
of a rifle being prepped
maybe to kill you
from the new military post

just a few feet away.

You walk the bridge
toward the Cay,
your back tingling
in the sights
of that invisible rifle.
Mateo’s growling
makes you fear
that the kid
holding the rifle
be trigger happy,
or fear that the dog
is a threat.

You arrive at the Cay
but it’s not the same
carefree place
you used to go
moonlit nights before.

It can NEVER be the same
stolen whole
by man’s ambition
to control.
A thousand times
be damned !
This is a sorrow
that will live
until you die.

© Roberto Isaza
May 19, 2005