Joel Chace


from A Ship


                              16.


Golden gleam of dawn sea, of 
spruce masts wrapped with silk.  This ship’s, 
for now, a schooner anchored 
well offshore.  Starboard cedar 
hull pulled open.  Passengers 
sit on narrow maple 
benches and dangle, kick 
pale feet in the brine.  Each 
looks right, left, seeking a one
and only love, for that 
day.  They shift places.  Then, 
touching of knees, thighs; stroking, 
nuzzling of necks, breasts.  Pirates’ 
lust of rubies, pearls.




                              17.

Beginning, always, as 
a game, groping for flesh 
in pitch black corridors below
main deck.  Vertiginous 
movements, but in a darkness 
that isn’t living, deep, 
blessed.  Seduced through a 
threshold, this voyager  — 
inconsolable, whose will’s 
no longer taut, whose 
fidelity and charms have been 
swallowed by a gulf  —  slapstick 
spalts into a room made  —  
ceiling, walls, floor  —  of burlap ; 
the next of velvet; then of
foam.  And vanishes, after 
so many others.  Though the 
number of lovers remains 
a perfect mix and match. 




                              18.

To the crow’s nest they’re 
invited, even 
encouraged, to 
ascend.  Only one 
does.  Between white sky and 
gray sea, petrels and gulls, 
gently rocking starboard 
to port; dreaming, 
waking, dreaming of 
the great mast dipping 
leeward until 
it submerges this arm, this 
shoulder.  Dreaming of falling  —  
with all the company  —   
to silence in the heart 
of the sea, of being 
broken in the depths of the 
waters, of becoming first 
a terror and then 
nothing, anymore.  




                              19.

Moon, a red 
disk this night.  On 
the quiet deck, he 
fondles his lover’s 
neck, and listens.  
All the soldiers were now 
killed; the bodies were 
stripped and left where they fell.  
We were sorrowful.  We had 
no dance that night.   Next 
morning four of us walked 
among the dead, to count.  One 
man carried a bundle 
of sticks.  When we came 
to a body, we took a
stick and gave it to 
another man.  So 
we numbered them.  All 
had been mutilated 
to incapacitate them 
for the afterlife.  
                                 Slate
sea.  Man sobbing after
speaking.  Blood moon.   

Joel Chace has published work in print and electronic magazines such as Tip of the Knife, Eratio, Otoliths, Word For/Word, Golden Handcuffs Review and The Brooklyn Rail. Most recent collections include Humors, from Paloma Press, Threnodies, from Moria Books, and fata morgana, from Unlikely Books. Maths is forthcoming from Chax Press.

 
 

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