‘Family Line’ by Stephanie Conn

When we meet at the harbour wall
neither of us mention the date
though you hug me tightly

Nineteen years and not counting.
We climb down uneven steps
and clamber unto the boat.

At this speed we will be there
in ten minutes or less; six hundred
seconds until we disembark.

The wind presses our faces into strange
shapes, snatches the questions
from my salt-laced mouth.

You taught me to skim stones;
now you reach out your hand
to steady me on the jagged rocks.

We follow the island rules; keep to the edges.
You estimate the distance to the mainland;
the stretch your brother never swam.

You prefer cold facts to stories; like to list
the names of flowers and birds, can easily
distinguish male from female,

delight at the sight of wobbling chicks,
ill-disguised to your well trained eye.
The parents shriek. You drew me ducks

on notepads and napkins, taught me to dive.
I explain who is who in the crowded graveyard –
how exactly you descend from those laid here.

I lead you inland, point out the smaller islands.
One turn and all is overgrown. You beat a path
through sharp grass, keep clear of the thistles

and yellow wild flowers. You watch seal heads
emerge beyond the headland; something glints
on the brink – three white deck chairs in a row.

From issue #2: spring/summer 2016

About the Author
A recipient of an ACNI Career Enhancement Award, Stephanie Conn’s poetry has been widely published. She is a winner of the FSNI and Yeovil Poetry competitions and the Seamus Heaney Prize for New Writing. Her collection The Woman on the Other Side is out now with Doire Press.