Because it was so dark in the little room,
the windows were painted shut,
the salt air eroded the wooden beams,
we tried to imagine the beginning of things.
Gideon was passed out on the couch,
the latest addition to the row
of sea shacks that began with
my father, our mother decided.
He was already thin and thirsty
when he returned home after
a 30 days sales week
to selfish children and separate bedrooms.
No longer could he entertain illusions
of the world-weary traveler, of his wife
weaving her life with his on a loom.
My grandmother
who has not had a drink in 20 years
and can remember
said it was her great-grandfather
who knew depression is the Gulf of Mexico
and gulped like a drowning fish.
A distant relative confessed she wept
at the herring flopping on the deck,
but what does it matter if she laughed or cried?
Maybe the crew sang, Oh I am young.
Maybe they sang, Oh I am young and heartless.
What of the ships that sailed
on salt and tonic water,
the exquisite quilt that fell apart
in the middle of the night,
or the threads that parted
violently with a knife?
Seagulls already jump at the sight
of pale flesh. The house already stands on stilts.
Gideon looked a bit waterlogged when he offered,
If you're gong to look all the way back,
it was Adam who agreed
the apple was intoxicating;
who ate with abandon,
even as the sun set on the first trauma,
the first bitter disappointment,
the first shock of waking up naked
and not knowing you how you got there.
