Scherzo One
The floorboards still talk to each other, though
these days they whine in an alien tongue. They’ve been at it
since those fourteen beautiful Greeks
were sent to their oversea deaths (and
two more leapt in). Talking, talking. One night
I took half the boards ashore
for a pyre. Things quieted down
a day or two. It’s not so important. A ship
once the sail’s furled is
not a ship. It’s not so important
if water doesn’t drum against the hull. It’s not so important
if half the floor is Cypress now and
the Cedar has started up again. It’s just
filling itself in (talking, talking). It was the sail which
killed him. Not those
fourteen Greek youths, just
the sail. Just the sight of it. Now
the right sail is up. Now
it’s the wrong sail and nobody living remembers
how he died. These days I can’t even remember which dark waters
engulf me. I’ve tried asking the boards
but these days questions are all
they quiet down for (they’re still bitter
about the Cedar I tore up
to grieve the rest of it). I’ve tried journaling
but it didn’t make any more sense
in ink. Why the seasick half of a name steps
Minoan dances down the shore of my tongue. When the breach
(which won’t take questions either) opened up. I stopped journaling.
It’s okay to lose a few things.