one night, floating on a sea
of *** and ale
the captain looks up at the bard
from where he’s laying with his head
in the bards’ lap, nimble fingers in his hair
says, “i love you”

words fail the poet now
and nothing escapes but
a sound between a sob
and a laugh

but the captain seems to understand
just the same
and for this the bard is thankful
presses a chaste kiss to the corner
of the captains’ mouth

and the next day
hungover and gripped by
panic over a loss not yet happened
the bard constructs a balcony
around the entire top half
of his two story cabin

watching from warm, salty waters
the siren laughs, insists it’s a widow's walk
and the bard doesn’t give her the satisfaction
of an answer, both knowing she’s right

there is a walk-way around the lighthouse
but it’s not enough
it’s just……
not enough

the siren watches this all
wishes briefly for legs
in order to go to the bard
hold him in her arms

the captain is not there
to see this
how the bard works with
tears in his eyes
a deep cut appearing
on the palm of his hand
and a slash through one eyebrow

the bard cries over the hammer
and nails, the wooden boards
and wrought iron

he cries for the captain
loving him too much
to try and cage a thing so wild
that only the ocean can soothe

he cries for the sadness
in the sirens’ eyes
bright red hair fanning out around
her in the deep green waves

and when the captain
sails back into view
the widow’s walk is complete

and the bard waits
leaning against the railing
he made with his own two hands
bandage on palm and face
and he cries again
but this time out of relief

on a cliff by the sea
there is a cottage
with a lighthouse rising up
behind the slightly slanted roof

though isolated, there is
no loneliness here
only the howling wind
and rolling grassy hills
dotted with daisies,
dandelions, and clovers

a bard resides there
that loved a sea captain
to the point of becoming
a beacon,
always more welcome than warning

and isn’t that a beautiful thing,
loving someone to the point
of creation?

after all, every living thing
needs some kind of constant

like a weather-beaten ship,
coffee always warm on the stove,

or a bard, tirelessly keeping
a light burning
in order to guide his
sea captain home

perhaps funnily enough
it is not the sea captain
that the bard has built a
home for his heart
inside of

of course
the captain holds so many
pieces of this heart already
tucked into pockets of
his tattered long-coat
and tangled in his hair

but the bard has so much
more to give
love manifested as a bouquet
of daisies held together by
a simple leather cord

****** shyly into the waiting
hands of a siren
bobbing up and down in the waves
hair red like the sunset
streaming out behind her

and this siren
her scent like something akin to home
all cinnamon and clove and sea water
cups the bards face in
her two hands

running gentle and webbed
fingers over week-old stubble
she murmurs,
“hello there, my sweet bard”

and the tug the bard feels
to dive into the swelling
waves of the ocean
has nothing to do with the
sirens beautiful, deadly song

nay, this tug has everything
to do with the love
and adoration in the sirens eyes

and how that makes
the bards tender and poetic
heart fill almost to bursting
with how much
he also loves her,
his lady of the ocean
and the waves

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