It’s criminal we can’t talk war criminals, Neruda, and tattoos while sipping sangria on your porch. I say your porch because I need to get out more. When I was a kid I thought Florida was an island because I couldn’t say peninsula and because my aunt and uncle lived there and I wanted to visit an island. Now I have island friends, instead. I’m going to compare my whole world to the Atlantic Ocean now, and I’m trying to get to each of you before the makos smell the blood I can’t stop loving into the surf. Mostly we share poetry and motherhood—poetry and motherhood, poetry and motherhood, is there anything else?—but I remember sitting with you in a lecture hall crying about a reelection that never should have happened. We thought we had it bad then, huh? Of course we did, but I guess what I mean is, we thought it couldn’t get worse. It’s worse. Can I call you? Would you read to me over the phone? Can iambs move underwater? Can women? We’ll probably find out soon enough. Maybe the best thing I could do for you is to build you a flood shelter to preserve your art. A poet hug, then you bike away and I’ll wrap your paintings in your poems, roll up copies of your book and slide them into my empty liquor bottles, and wear all your jewelry at once, sit in the central Floridian dark stock-still like an island and dare the flood waters to try.