This ship sails on peacefully towards dark lines dropped to Spanish beaches alive with red sun, slanted rain. How Irish I feel. Asking questions only with my hands. Disembarking, we look for engines, pathways past the shorebreak. After insisting we're lost, we inhale rest, water, the last breath.
Fences keep memory's weight tied to knotted storms, forestalling distemper.
My mother tells me this across the miles reciting sapphics, dropping syllables, and I endure her words through traffic bones. Maria Callas died in her shower, alone in her Paris apartment. Thomas Merton, wet, with shower water running still put his hand on the fan and dissolved. Then eats a whole fish, three tangerines and rice. I know the masked playwright father spying on the Spanish shore, guilty of depriving bees of winter.