The Boat

1978

Lights on the dimming Vietnamese shoreline  bleed into this morning’s bruise.

We are cramped and      ostracised cargoes on board our own Demeter.

Fingers slipping on beaten        wings of Hail Marys. Oil creeping toward a flame.

Night mares      gallop. We thirst to reach new shores, not knowing yet how to drink, pointing out our tongues for the last drop.

At the world’s edge, there is nothing ahead but down. Graveyard hour and each of us in        our coffins. The sea slinks possessive roots around the hull.

We are scattered                           ashes in our birth country.

It is not too late to die again.

The angel rolls the stone away                          from the tomb.

We are               vampires flitting               in the collapsing night

              gasping                                       pale                                                          undead.