The Former Pirate on His Way Back to Lisbon
         

                      I'm over
the overboard, know it
                      and the waves,
          how salt and gulp the sea
                      sings and tries:

                      I've
held rope + hauled my wet-
                      formed form tremulant
          from the dark that will some-
                      day be home.

                      I've
too many times fallen:
                      I've swooned
          for sights I could imagine
                      but couldn't

                      quite see,
have felt and been
                      too small a splash-
          to be human is to crave
                      a more

                      substantial
self with which to cap-
                      size, one body into
          another, amen, and I've
                      been scared,

                      yes, I've
fearfully searched the horizon
                      for cracks,
          a way to separate sea
                      and sky

                      and de-
spaired at the lack of a clear
                      divide I've hewn
          close to known land,
                      unsure

                      of which shoulder
to confront distant wind with;
                      I've been
          enveloped in prow-split spray
                      and have

                      wondered
about disappearing
                      into this
          or that
                      mist.

                      Have wondered,
in fact, if I hadn't already. I have—
                      deep cold—
          gasped + come to,
                      blinking toward

                      where I
should've been pointing all
                      along. I've seen
          brass sextants
                      whiten blue

                      water
on impact + bob once
                      before succumbing to
          a depth I fear +
                      need constantly

                      beneath me.
And stars: How could we ever
                      measure? We name
          that which lightens
                      and guides:

                      Point anywhere—
someone's tried to go home
                      tracing just
          that route, while what's
                      below

                      + surging
is all we ever know
                      of transit,
          the chaotic song one long
                      held note:

                      Welcome.

Copyright © 2010 Weston Cutter All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission