Ben Corvo
A children’s story, colors a little too saturated,
the light too, in the opening frames, the animals
looking almost frisky, and in the last a world
without bones, ruins, or mud. And the interval?
Always, always left out. Try to imagine the hold,
darkness, stink of rotting wood, pitch, piss, offal,
the slurry sloshes and pools with each roll,
you scrabble to keep footing on it while carrying
water buckets, manure, sides of meat, haybales,
also the work of mucking, feeding, watering,
keeping the peace, or at least minimal separation,
you cannot close your eyes, much less rest, ever,
even if you could sleep through the cacophony,
waves crashing over the top, the wind shrieking,
animals shrieking, or their whimpers, yelps, groans,
and the groans of the boat, you expect the fragile shell
to be crushed, sometimes you find yourself hoping
for an end like this, you lean against a brace and breathe
Merciful God, and then resume, a children’s story
that may not ever end, a future that may not come.