Ishmael, or The Orphan

Before the God-bullied hull, call me—

Before the God-bullied hull buckles, before

The red flag unfurled on water bucks and drowns,

Before the sky-hawk dives down, before

The nail drives through the sky-hawk’s red-wing—

Call me

the nail driven through the wing

And call me the wing driven through.

A board

On water is buoyant, I know: I cling to wood—

A dictionary buckles and drowns. I know

I do not drown: I’m abridged, afloat, call me—

Sir, when my book arrives, when each page

You’ve untied lets go the breath it held

That was my breath, then my breath will not be mine—

I think you’ll know. I know when doors open

I mean to keep closed: study-door, desk-drawer.

My wife found the key I hid beneath the fern.

My pens she did not touch. She did not touch

The hundred pages I left blank to fill other days.

She took the cracked compass I keep for luck

(the needle’s sharp, but stuck), took my green-glass

Ink-pot, and centering the compass on my desk,

Poured out each dark drop of ink unitl ink

Seeped through cracked glass and left the compass

Ink-full. The gold needle loosened, floated: a line.

Bent back, I am taking you inside my head

Turning back. Ahab bent

The needle that refused North

back to a magnet’s tow—

Did, Ahab did, after

The needle’s faith answered our question: No.

How do you point at a horizon? Ask me. I know.

Needle out your arm: close eyes:

And turn in a circle. Inscribe a zero on the wood-deck—

The Equator on zero

latitudes lies. That is the truth, I know

Sir, what name that bay a last page carves

Out of no shore: ice? glacier? greenland?

strand, shoal-of-white-sand? an artic-calm?

How live, Sir, there—where I’ve been sailing?

Let me list for you, the cargo in my hold:

A brush, a mirror gilt-in-gold, a gold strand

Of wife’s hair, a dirty plate, a sink with no water,

A white-sheeted bed, a finger with a ring

That the ring hates. Sir, these bound pages

Are bound for you. I’ve a compass

Full of ink. I see I need repair, plank

By plank, my boat, while ocean-bound, while afloat.

I’m

Orphan, Ishmael, Equator-Line:

A man alone equals the wave before it crests,

Wave, before crest, equals the needle turning,

Needle turning equals the flinch of a hawk-wing,

A hawk-wing’s flinch is heaven turning

Away. Men swallow water

Sir, I meant not to be so much myself

As I am. I meant to keep my mouth closed

When wife asked, “Should I go?” and I said: “Go.”

Bow-of-the-bed, empty bow. I’m captain,

I guess, now. I fold the blank sheet back

Each morning. There’s a page I mean to read.

No hand wrote it. It’s white. It hides white

Inside another page of white. How, Sir—

Open a page inside a page? How, Sir, do you

Read the page that was written so you could not

Read it. I know, I think I know. You sleep,

Or step, or slip beneath the surface of the bed

And learn to breathe as paper breathes: with other’s breath.

And then water swallows men. A grave-magnet

Pulls them down. Fathom me—

Editor, fathom me. I am a known depth. I’m a

Definition easy: a man, a mortal man.

A man with five needles on each hand

Pointing heavenward. Heed me. I’m lost.

Source: Spell (2004)