Ghost ships come alive on dreamy oceans,
Where we, in the guise of little children,
Are allowed to explore
Each and every mast, rigging and knot.
We are.

I become Errol Flynn, Harrison Ford, and Rudolph Valentino all rolled into one.
You take on the form of our favorite leading lady,
Now we get to save your ***
From the villainous Blackbeard.
Even Captain Hook has his hand in on trying to stop us.

Out comes that shiny sword--
Light as a toothpick and silver.
We slash down the sails onto the rabid pursuers
Then bloodlessly skewer them into inaction.
We free you again and again.

I found this poem on glass bottles,
sunken like crystalline boats
in the fathoms of my cabinets.

I found this poem at the bottom
of a salt-fringed shot glass.
I have been thirsty ever since

for the words that will raise the dead,
bring back the ones who forgot me,
or drown out memories of my failure.

I can only slur my apologies now.
I can only watch blurry-eyed, raw
in the face, fire burning blistered lips.

I have been drinking saltwater,
dashing my hopes upon the rocks.
My shiny bottles are as empty as I am.

I thought about making a ship-in-a-bottle,
but if I did I’d have to fill all of them
with oars. I would have a fleet.

Instead, I imagine them there. I try
to hide them away from the daylight,
capsize them into the recycling bin.

They haunt me. They float above
the kitchen counters, buoyed trophies
of sadness. I cannot raise their anchors.