by Elvis Bego Cris Tagupa This island’s mine, I whispered when I saw them, stranded on those slick rocks, like I had been some months before. Yes, it was mine. There were three men lying there drying in the sun, dazed, recovering. All alone I’d been and it was good. Small though the island was, there was food enough to feed me. Strange walnuts I ate, and apricots, and hibiscus flowers, and poppies, and mushrooms raw and delicious, and there was a small trickle of water where