The Captain’s lady
climbs the attic stairs
to the widow’s walk,
noticing the center
of the treads worn smooth ;
she thinks she’s journeyed
round the world and back,
waiting for him.
Sweeping up
the gyring staircase,
Her own restlessness
moves her higher,
relentless as storm tides.
She knows too well that
the Love that takes a sailor
to the sea
doesn’t always
bring him home again.
Opening the rooftop door,
She is, as always,
blinded by
the juxtaposition
of sun and shadow,
red portentous sunset
blooding the world.
Heartbeat’s hesitation,
afraid to look,
afraid to see the horizon
flat as a solitary dinner plate.
The dark blanket of the sea
spreads out before her,
womb-barren,
covering secrets.
Small sailboats dart across
the harbor’s sibylline surface,
piloted by town boys
already seduced by the
siren call of wind lust.
Making no deals with the sea,
her life is anchored
to an infinite chain of nows,
tethered fast to Hope.
Eyes closed,
she absently caresses
the Indian silk shawl
he brought her
half a life ago,
saying it added a touch
of foreign elegance.
Self-encircling,
she can almost smell
his unexpectedly tender hands,
scented with exotic spices & stories,
holding the small of her back
against the thrust of his hard hips.
Fixed as a figurehead
to this high place,
she rides the waves
of her desire for him,
"Tomorrow," she tells herself,
"tomorrow, he will come,"
safe harbor won,
love lighting a beacon
to guide him
back to the realism
of her soft arms.
She is true North
leading him home.
a constant point
between the sea and the horizon.
Dark descends.
no friend,
and she only leaves the endless
possibility of the walk
when her straining eyes
can no longer pierce
the ocean’s murky veil.
Down below
there are meals to cook,
gardens to tend, children to grow
but up here,
on the pinnacle of hope,
the Captain’s Lady envies the cooing doves
both their hollow-boned wings
and the easy fulfillment
of their desire.
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