The ceiling of the grand ballroom
Opens as if it were taking in a deep breath.
All of the golden oil painted negative space
And striped Moorish arches allow the chandelier to shine
Blood red.
The pirates hung from the ceiling,
Each with his wrists bound to his ankles,
Festooned in the shape of a teardrop
Or a bell or a drop of blood.
The Jolly Roger slowly turns
Without even a slight breeze or breath,
Dangling from a single chord of rope.
How jolly Roger used to be before the navy came,
Smiling at the sinking enemy ships set on fire by black powder.
Perhaps he still smiles, even through the darkness,
Even through the gaping, gasping
Cannonball holes you can almost hear moan
On the side of his ship far below the surface of the sea,
And hangs high and proud on his ship’s tallest mast.
Perhaps the pirates hang high too, robust and glorious
Like their billowing flag, shameless and naked
With nothing to hide and everything to be proud of, a trophy
Not for a queen and her navy
But for themselves and the successes of their wanderlust.