by Gibson Fay-LeBlanc
Keel I built under me, sunk deep
so as not to tip or flip or let
salt water rush through galley then
angled bedroom in the bow.
Navigation keeps your now
possible death in formless distance.
I can’t hear, can’t taste, can’t smell what all
hovers in the air — polished glass
holds it back as strings and horns
fall from hidden speakers, jazz
asking me to close eyes, forget
buffleheads on swells — and each
time I think the water may
not rise, roll, and break, but it does.
It does. Clouds combed into cornrows,
held in place by a force I can’t
see, can’t conceive. My mind, my boat
lacks the sails to fathom a world
without you, wind, brother, in it.