Inside Poet’s room was dark so Sylvia turned on a lantern and stood in the doorway watching Coby take in his surroundings.
“God,” he said. “My brother was such a pansy.”
Sylvia wasn’t sure if she should laugh.
“Look at this,” Coby added as he walked to a silver picture frame that sat atop his bedside nightstand.
He lifted it and showed it to Sylvia. She saw Poet’s friends all standing in front of the fire. She recognized everyone in the picture as current residents plus a guy with dreadlocks she assumed must be Bobber. Sylvia hadn’t known Poet, and she didn’t know any of the others all that well, but she had a feeling if she were to walk into any of the other cabins, none of them would have a picture like this in their room. Poet obviously cared about his friends.
“He cared about them,” Sylvia said. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Caring gets you dead,” Coby said.
She almost argued with him but thought better of it. No good could come of it.
“And this shit…”
Coby picked a piece of paper up off the nightstand and flicked a finger against it. The smack was loud and almost made Sylvia jump. He handed it to her and she read it.
You lonesome locket with faded picture
Stolen from view like your eyes
No life lies within them
No will left to bend them
No hope hovers in violet skies
You song out of tune hummed for the moon
High pitched to a squealing whine
No harmony within it
No lyrics left to finish
No melody in violent times
The text had been scrawled onto a yellow sheet of notebook paper torn free from the rest of the pad. No title. No signature.
“What does this shit even mean?” Coby asked.
“He was a poet, right?” she replied.
It was his nickname, after all.
“He wrote it, if that’s what you mean,” Coby said.
Sylvia was confused. The last time they’d spoken about his brother, Coby had practically broken down about how he’d never been much of a role model and had expected too much of Poet. Now, he seemed almost ashamed of his younger brother’s sensitivities, or creativity for that matter. She knew that deep down he must have been harboring a brewing storm, holding back gale force winds in that chest of his.
Coby was wound up tight and Sylvia was learning that he wasn’t easily unwound. Each time they’d been together he’d started to loosen up, but as soon as his hardened exterior began to falter, he’d throw his wall back up and be on the defensive again. It took longer than it should have to get him to finally lie down in bed with her. She didn’t expect to have sex, not in Poet’s bed, and definitely not the first time they entered his cabin, but Coby couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her. When she tried to convince him sex wasn’t necessary and that she was happy to let him rest and have some time to grieve, he’d looked her deep in the eyes and said, “You don’t understand. It’s my way. I’m savage, and my woman will be fucked every day. Every…single…day.”
She squealed when he climbed between her legs, gripped her hips, and pulled her roughly toward him. Her legs spread easily for him. Who was she to deny him this savagery he spoke of? Besides, she was his woman. She would need to start accepting his ways, and in this situation, she was happy to oblige.
An hour or so later, she lay in bed savoring the feeling of his thick, muscular body pulling her c
lose, spooning her with a desire that remained even in his sleep. Sylvia knew he needed her in some way. How, she wasn’t exactly sure, but it was clear he wanted to keep her close, and she had no desire to leave. She felt wanted, needed in his arms. The moon shone in through the large window near the door and she appreciated how the glow illuminated his naked thigh. At this moment, she knew she never cared to step foot on mainland again.