there is no drowned sailor
here, captain
just a bard steeping his sorrows
in wine
***,
and beer

and the poetics of heartbreak
can only seem appealing for so long

like a sea captain who does not
know how to be loved
and a foolish bard who does not
know how to stop loving

the bard drinks,
wondering if he is an anchor
and if he is
of what nature

are his hands on the broad
shoulders of the sea captain
a welcomed sort of grounding,
or like being held back?

the ocean always returns
to the sandy shore
in one way or another

and in this way
the bard is like the sea
a constant current

love as stream of consciousness
and whispered into the
hollow of the captains neck
something like a litany, maybe
always too much something or other
to really be a prayer

besides, the bard is not a devout man
only believes in what he can touch
like a battered flask,
the captains long and wind-swept hair,

or the frayed cuff of a long-coat
draped over the bards shoulders
on the coldest of nights

(and, well, if that long-coat
belongs to the captain
then it’s nobody’s business
but theirs)

my first introduction to piracy
as a young lad
was that my father drank grog

one shot of old crow
a couple more splashes
of lukewarm tap water

always on the rocks
swirled around once
and downed in a single swallow

i wonder if he drank
when i wasn’t around
but didn’t know how to ask

and really, how do you
ask your father if you’re the
reason he drinks?

and i haven’t seen
or heard from my father
since i was 18

but i know he stopped drinking
when i was 7
and i wonder who it was for

selfishly, of course
i’d like to think it was for me
but i know better now

and it may not be his fault he didn’t
know how to be a proper father
but it hurts just the same

it’s always funny
the things that you
end up remembering
about someone

like that he used
irish spring soap
except, no he didn’t
i used irish spring

and so does my grandfather
which i know because
he’s the one that gave
me the soap when mine
ran out

i know where that soap is
upstairs in a cabinet
lined up at least three across
and four deep

went looking for the hair-dryer
so i could more quickly finish
coating a used canvas in alternating
layers of black and white paint
and got lost in the smell
of irish spring soap

and that made me think of
my father for some inexplicable reason
he never used irish spring soap
but he did use flower scented perfume
and those scents are arguably close

and i wondered if i was looking
for something in that cupboard
that it couldn’t offer me

and i wore these two
beat-to-**** leather jackets
that my father gave me
from middle school to high school
along with a sweater that
clung to how he smelled
even after i’d washed it

i got rid of those two jackets
and the sweater
earlier this year
realized that looking at them
only made me sad
and maybe also a little angry

i kept that pocketknife
he gave me, though
and a stuffed bunny rabbit
and i wonder why

there is a practicality
in keeping the pocketknife
and maybe a certain kind of
sentimentality in the bunny

but who am i to say, really
why i kept these two things
and not the leather jackets
and sweater

maybe i am looking for something
that none of these objects can
offer me

maybe they remind me
of my father
in that he has nothing to offer me

and even if he did
i wouldn’t pick up the phone

heartbreak is one hell
of a muse
and the bard wonders
if the captain
if his captain
is aware of this

that the bard could have
a muse before the captain
is nothing to scoff at

because, really, what kind
of poet would he be
if heartbreak weren’t his
first love?

and there really is a certain
poetry in taking the thing that
plagues you into shaking hands
and forcing it into a shape
that suits you better

maybe the shape of that
heartbreak is you, captain

maybe the shape of that
heartbreak
is you

the bard wonders if there is
an ending to this story
that could classify it
in the genre of love

wants to ask the captain
but knows deep down that
he needs nothing more than
a ship upon the sea
good *** in a sturdy flask
and a body to hold on
the coldest of nights

and the bard can appreciate
the simplicity of those needs
but, he wants to ask the captain,
what about wants?

because, you see, the bard
he is full of wants
practically overflowing
with all this wanting

arguably more of a yearning
but that’s really just a matter
of semantics he’s choosing to ignore

and this is already a love story,
isn’t it?

even if the two characters don’t
kiss and live happily ever after

besides, the bard thinks,
there is not much material
in the monotony of being
constantly content

because, there are wants
and there are needs
like a poet and a bard needing a muse
and a captain wanting to be held
by something other than the sea

and that’s enough of an ending
at least as far as the bard
is concerned

“love makes fools of us all,
my captain,” the bard says,
and there is no bitterness in
his voice, nor any shake

“but,” he continues,
smoothing down the collar
of the captain’s long-coat,
“there are worse things than
being a fool for you”

and the bard remembers something
from long ago
about how touching someone’s collar
will keep them safe at sea

so he does just that
one more time, for good measure
not just because he can
but because the captain will allow it

for there is more between them now
than a ship tossed about by the
waves on the oceans great expanse

but still, nothing more than
a pretty little dagger
tucked into the bard’s boot
and a daisy behind the captain’s ear

such simple little things
objects exchanged in a way
that is arguably a love language
though, who is to say, really?

what matters here is what
the dagger and the daisy hold

something like the promise of
immortalization through song,
the spoken and written word

and something like a goodbye
that is more a promise of return
and that is arguably a beautiful thing
wouldn’t you say
oh, captain of mine?

at first there was a sea captain
and he could have been lonely
but, surrounded by the great
expanse of the ocean
is one ever really alone?

and then, there was a bard
arguably more of an orator
(though a bard just the same)
for he carried no instrument,
no weapon but his words

and a pretty little dagger
that the captain gave him
tucked into his boot

it does not matter how long
the bard took to get to the captain
all that matters is he
is there now

so bright with all his love
the bard tucks daisies and
dandelions into the captain’s
long and windswept hair

and if the captain’s teeth are
a little crooked and the
bard has scars on wrist
and arm and chest
well, neither of them minds

because the bard will still
make the captain breakfast
and the captain will still
share his flask of ***

and when the captain asks,
voice rough with late nights
and years of salty ocean brine,
“is this a love story?”

the bard will only laugh,
voice free of heartbreak,
knowing the captain will
always belong more to the
ocean than he ever could
to him, and say,
“nay, my captain. it is naught
but a jaunty little tune”