If I Had Sailed to the Edge of the Sea

A trickle spills unceasing from snow banks

fed by rain and what heat there's in thin air,

over rock, an eager rush to the sea.

Empty, the wine bottle

lolls around the sofa,

my hair a sop for soup;

bat shit drifts from rafters,

mice mine the floor's debris.

From trickle to stream, ever wider, the run,

full of gravity; only God could block

its incessant journey towards the sea.

Lover, father, leader -

God, what have I become,

my thin hair, pea soup green -

swallows ignore my rants

and mice laugh as they scour.

While God can stop the flow, man with concrete,

built over salmon-falls, gray barriers will

block the river's restless trek to the sea.

Strong woman, cheap drink,

face against bright windows

for too many late nights

till she could take no more,

mice my lone company.

Cunning will not stop the river, spillways

fill as water tumbles, rivulets meet

stronger floods as they voyage to the sea.

Left with dreams which belong

to others, I mix Cathay

with Istanbul, Xerxes

with Xanadu, camels,

mice and scorpions.

Past farm, mill, home, city troughs, the current

spreads broad to fill tidal flats, rock jetties

and sand bars, the last barrier to the sea.

Once I owned the oceans,

rich, mackerel-crowded,

mine to gather as I

now harvest rotgut wine

while mice mine my debris.

Cold soup dried, the muddled drunk slept to dream

of salmon full and mackerel crowded

nets before his last return to the sea.

                  -Gary Blankenship

(Copywrite 2001)

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