Poems

Shipwrecker’s Ball

Our nighttime here upon the sea has slowed down to a crawl,
In a whiskey fit, we’ll sink our ship to host our Shipwrecker’s Ball.

Send out the invitations, catch the harpies on the wind,
There’s no need for decoration for all the times that we have sinned. 

Our skeleton crew has come to terms with winter’s quick abandon,
Dealing cards up on the wreckage, betting Jacks don’t go to heaven;

Good times are worth nothing here, we always play for silver
Had we choice, we may have jumped in shark-infested water: 

Our ship of fools, Theseusian, the men are saving face,
No bastard here among us has clambered down from grace, 

The grifter balks with loaded pistol, wild as the weather
He shot two down the other day, don’t think we’ll fair much better, 

One man marks his rank by empty casks of gin,
(In all my days, I’ve never seen a sailor quite like him!) 

Another man purports to hold Bram Stoker’s poet soul—
Too bad he lacks the will to die, too bad he won’t grow old. 

Then we have the captain, find me a finer man than he
Though he should have stayed a bachelor, unbetrothed to the sea,

The final man is like the rest, save for fatal flaw
He’s strong enough as any sailor but never lost his pa; 

That leaves but me, the navigator, though they think me dead
I’ve merely taken up another name and carved another head 

Of stone and brush and bramble, I burst before the knot,
I choose to read the ways of old, but not for getting caught 

I’ll hide my grave intentions until rescue has arrived.
My spirit won’t be broken, I think I’ll take a dive– 

The sharpened knife of water cuts my lust to frigid buoy
Reminding me of masking days on shore in Mata Nui.

The party’s huddled in a mass, there’s smoke on the horizon–
It doesn’t hurt to watch them go, (I’ve started to despise them!) 

Like a song, my memory is surely bound to falter,
A siren now, I’ll pay my dues and keep their bones upon my altar…

And though the night has come to pass, I still feel the withdrawal,
For times we spent, a wretched crew, to host our Shipwrecker’s Ball.

Alannah Guevara is a poet-wife and vilomah. Find her published works by floating around in the aether (or in Revolution John, Isele Magazine, Toyon, and Rejection Letters). Alannah is the editor-in-chief of Hunter’s Affects: a lit mag for deadheads. Alannah is on Twitter @prismospickle.

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