All of the People Hate Poetry

Oh, Calm Pirate!

I free quiet, lurid dreams:

the acrid taste of your fingers

dry and tight, hands perfumed of tobacco and salt

the oiled air you breathe (in MY lungs!);

the metallic tang of fish and water

a million mops saturated in dim light,

valiant, hearty men at your command, steering away from land,

pulling the ship’s bow, your barrel chest, against waves.

Restless, now, but shy in a rose-walled box, you push from inside me

(a whisper at my ears, a pressure against my ribs)

you are rolled into new flesh,

hunkered in my shadow,

a subconscious persuasion.

the taste of your life lingers.

pale, dirty curls

soft eyes          filmed over with fear

filmed over with anger.

years of white sun turned to ink under the pressure of your resentment, the pressure of

my bleeding pen, guided by firm hand, poured onto paper.

Your secrets hidden in attics,

earthen basements,

unknown dwellings out of sight

dusted with sealed mouths and averted eyes

A life carpeted in misgivings, a blanket of regret,

wrings my paper dry and rewrites itself,

over and over, purer, simpler.

Sea Captain,

You Were.