Connor Takes to War

Dedicated to Obmama

Connor Takes to War

(America cuts the flume true)

 

So long ago their freedom won, his war was done

on our grim yet daring keel; our cutter now makes silent wake

below a morning sun.

 

On our captain’s last whisper we flew her stripes and stars.

But, the wind stuttered, the flag faltered, then the calm became us.

 

We slipped in blood slick—on a wrecked deck of oak red.

O’ the crew’s bleating: now, the ship adrift—the sails stalled in the shallows—

her hull flat on the corrals, the captain dead and bleeding.

 

The dull sea listed in the winter months: quiet it was—thinking we were of our fallen captain as if his ghost was with us. The rigging ravaged. Not a frivolous wind stirred our cloth. The gun deck exploded. Salt pork rationed

 

The Nubian rose with a wind new howling—flung the wheel to—

And into the seam of the storm and as a matter of sea craft

threw us keenly into our first tack.

 

Now a nor’easter blows again; blows us right a’round

takes us beyond the setting sun  with our prayers simmering

upon salt-flaked lips: The decks were sopped up, our chores made—

Their freedom won, The war was done…

 

Then on his grim yet daring order, to stations take—  

and now the shine of old sol off a pitted navel gun

And the fog now parting, for the razor of our bow.

But this war has an old song: so long ago; their freedom won,

the war was done; yet, America makes wake again below a morning sun.