by Lynn Valentine
I’m there again under a cool stone roof, my
doppelganger Hildasdottir sipping kaffi after
service, saying hallo to replicas of herself -
faces of blue eyes, upward-slanted cheeks.
I imagine myself tied to Magnus, Jon or Margret,
a belly drumming under my best woollen jumper,
the flush of newly-wed love snug inside.
Later we’ll stroll down shuttered streets,
snigger at tourists as they stagger from boats -
sick after eating shark, watching whales.
We’ll head home in the jeep, over ice-fields
and lava, past lagoons that shine too bright a blue.
We’ll tend to the horses, eat cinnamon buns,
pretend that this island is real.