If I ever still remembered the old song, the chant
written, spoken for her alone, on a quiet afternoon
beside a meandering riverbank
through the present haze
the crushing embrace
of the sea
of anguished shrieks against plated iron hulls
crumpling great steel pylons
composing the rigs
once stretching skywards towards God
the swells grow, engulfing the bows
thrusting the prow spotter tumbling back
pinned against the railing, with the water still
surging through the half-open petroleum hatch
his cries swallowed by the crash
of breaking, folding, writhing sheets
not of water
but cascading gray molten lead.
-
Windswept chestnut locks
a quiet, buttermilk stained smile
blue velvet Sunday shoes
kicking up the dust
tentatively treading over the road’s deep carriage ruts
her father’s old cloak
folds carried on by the slow draft, curling
around her, a benevolent serpent, murmuring:
“Mariana,
a bow tied back high in her hair,
going over the mines, the fields of home, over the high mountains,
turning herself to face the coastal breeze,
to the ivory wisps of steamships at port, sprawling across the bay,
casting themselves over the horizon, just like ancient triremes.”
-
Taking a rest in the square
sunning herself, beyond shadows
stretched long by drooping eaves.
She averts her eyes
down to the fabric of her cloak
running a varnished finger
over weathered herringbone weave.
-
Could it ever be?
-
Lifting her head
to meet his wavering gaze
burning with silvered light
churned by heat from plumes of steam
skimming, over the iridescent waters
so light, so free
those piercing, radiant eyes,
of a young man of the sea.
-
On the governor’s veranda, the sweeping faded curtains,
veiling the french doors,
sway,
its fleeting folds,
seeped with mottled white, from the days of sun and shade,
dance, back and forth,
in and out,
cloaking the figure, gazing mournfully out to sea,
the gulls, flittering across the heavens, reaching down over the waters,
arc and sweep,
crying, as they spread, dive, twist,
over the speckled dory trawlers,
dodging frayed nylon, rusted telegraph stays,
for long lost, bygone days.
-
My rust-stained gloves are ripped off,
by the sheets,
from my brittle, petroleum tainted fingers,
leaving nothing.
And as the gale begins to close,
spiraling its tendrils skywards towards God,
swallowing the ruined fields whole,
of crumpled steel pylons, towers, platforms,
while they fall,
condemned to the deep,
I open my mouth to speak,
as another sheet overcomes our tanker,
miles upon miles from the coast,
so far from safe berth,
so far from her,
I murmur,
against needles, shooting, throbbing, coursing their final trails,
through the last of my shot, bloodied nerves:
“Mariana,
turning herself to face the coastal breeze,
to the ivory wisps of steamships at port, sprawling across the bay,
casting themselves over the horizon, just like ancient triremes…”