At Sea

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.