Brendan

He has been at sea for a thousand days.
His crew grows mutinous. And so, it seems,
do his extremities: his very skeleton aches
and sighs. The soft hair on his thighs goose
pimples. His face adopts a twitch.
The muscles whisper of rebellion.
His mustache plans a coup.
It is noon. The navigator’s vertebrae
click in anticipation. The fog sings soft, electrically.
Two low clouds part, leave room for destiny
to be seen. In the absence of breathing
you can hear the heat of the sun.

I am as if an apparition. I bless him
with my pale sands and the rocks
that dot my jagged coastline.
Rich green vegetation twists
in spirals around my dusty flesh.
He kneels to kiss the waves
that lap against my knees.

He makes his camp in the crook
of my elbow, so happy to have
discovered this home.
As he sleeps, I rock him back and forth,
tilt him towards the easier side
of dreaming, and wonder how soon
he will find that I am
no New World.