El Capitán
You stand upon the galleon bridge looking west over the sea
as the vessel’s final provisions are brought on board.
Don’t blink. I say don’t blink
but no you blink and there is a kind of you,
smaller, but clearly you, seated
at a crowded Woolworth’s counter, finishing lunch.
The man next to you looks over, his shirt smells of sawdust,
pine and sweat, and he says so you like fries with your ketchup,
so do I and you understand but don’t know why.
No one wears a helmet or carries a weapon.
There is the smell of fresh meat as it sizzles, cheeses
and breads laid out where the hungry are fed.
You rise and wade in more deeply.
Brilliant colors one after another,
shelf after shelf of things that make crinkling sounds.
Among other children finely attuned to this strange bazaar.
Dense aromas of sweetness.
More deeply you go into wave upon wave
of other scents, aromas of neither earth nor sea.
Then sawdust on the floor,
small creatures in small cages
and a multitude of tiny fishes, all made of gold.
Raise the sails, you say,
raise them now, men.
Fish, bounded by land, call
through glass like sirens.
Their bodies undulate through
their own circled wakes.
Raise the sails men, we sail not
toward destruction, but a heaven surely
not made by the hands of man.
Original Publication- Lotus Eater Magazine Issue 13, Fall 2021