That man of spices, circler of globes.
She was his carrack, heathen sprung from
a name so holy, her church still perched atop
his hill.
They left as one, hot August,
from the Spanish coast, his eyes grey
blustery as the wind that crossed
her lanteen sails. Her ropes taut
his hands eager, keen upon the rudder.
Three years they fought, discovered, sunk
within the choice high seas. She sailed
as one of five, to witness murder
in the Phillipines. Her heart gave out
storms set in, her love lost upon the sea.
When he was gone, she almost toppled -
what kept her was her stable deck
their promise to deliver just 18 men
starved and filthy, her holds heavy with
pungent spices, her wounded sides
that longed to sink.
That chilled September day she appeared
no surface was left uncelebrated, unflowered
untouched. And yet she only saw him
as he sunk far below the surface
eternal anchor left to rust. The smell of
cloves, all hands upon her -
never so alone.
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