gulled by centurions, visions of
bodies stacked in air-conditioned trailers
waiting to be booked into the same motel,
I stand by a protected shoreline wearing a mask–
gaze into the stained glass of ocean,
and read my scattering fortune.
Slick wands of thick licorice
scramble onto the pier. A man
in shiny zippers gathers his disciples
strokes the mammal’s blubber.
There are no boats in the water.
His fingernails are blue and
I grow cold looking at them
He tells me Jesus was a sailor,
gets a po-boy from the harbor
take-out that comes from China
like when we used to smoke together
in a rented cottage near the starlings
a walk to the waves as we watched goats
chew morning fog.
Then he takes me under his wing
of wet black lacquer, hands me a napkin
to wipe my greasy mouth
he knows I’ve been born
with a tongue that wavers
the way the ocean speaks
in measured tides.
It’s a song he’s singing
the seals are barking
a baritone chorus, one after another,
the gulls take a hint and follow their trail.
I walk to my car, the sun warms my shoulders
No one in the parking lot.
I remove my mask.
