Tags
a girl and her submarine, before the storm, Dama del Mar, gale's dirge, narco barco, santa muerte, sea poem, sonnet, squall's lament
Santa Muerte, I cannot pluck banjo
strings like Sal, nor compose on a guitar
like my brother. I do have magic, though,
of a different sort. I scrawl in the air
and the words jell and congeal. Even now,
Dama del Mar, with husky, haughty lips,
I reel across the deck each time we plough
through ten foot swells; each time salt water drips
in my eyes while sliding down swales to surge
up each peak. Below, in the engine room,
womb warm and sacred, one of your altars,
heart and cunt of this boat, keeps beat: gale’s dirge,
squall’s lament. Make this submarine my tomb
and I will gladly play shaman to sailors.
