After so much time you think 

you'd have it netted 

in the mesh of language. But again 

it reconfigures, slick as Proteus.



You're in the kitchen talking 

with your ex-Navy brother, his two kids

snaking over his tattooed arms, as he goes on 

& on about being out of work again.



For an hour now you've listened, 

his face growing dimmer in the lamplight 

as you keep glancing at your watch 

until it's there again: the ghost rising



as it did that first time when you, 

the oldest, left home to marry. 

You're in the boat again, alone, and staring 

at the six of them, your sisters



& your brothers, their faces bobbing 

in the water, as their fingers grapple 

for the gunwales. The ship is going down, 

your mother with it. One oar's locked



and feathered, and one oar's lost, 

there's a slop of gurry pooling 

in the bottom, and your tiny boat 

keeps drifting further from them.



Between each bitter wave you can count 

their upturned faces--white roses 

scattered on a mash of sea, eyes fixed 

to see what you will do. And you?



You their old protector, you their guardian 

and go-between? Each man for himself, 

you remember thinking, their faces 

growing dimmer with each oarstroke.