Ribbon

Ribbon

All was taken from you: white dresses,

wings, even existence.

Yet I believe you,

messenger...

                         Czeslaw Milsoz

Unnoticed near his toe on the burden boards

it floats in what water wasn’t bucketed,

out, and plashes near the plugged

bung: a girl’s purple hair-ribbon.  Then it kisses

his heel—and he doesn’t notice.  It kisses

the absence of it when he lifts his foot,

he doesn’t notice.  Rowlock mews at the oar rub.

He stows the anchor.  Rows.  Drops Anchor.  Throws

and stows and rows and in the rhythm of it,

sweeps the water beyond, the huddled mothers

on shore, the incorrigible sorrow.  He stows it

all.

So when the two other men stand to throw

their grappling hooks that pull to snag

at the solid bottom, only when, hung head,

when his fingers scrape his hair, does see the limp

lavender bow.  He picks it up out of the cold

water, and it drips like an aspergil.  Swaying himself

more sober,  he grips his breast, a pocket of reeceipts.  To do

list.  His own little girl was at home.  He knows

she’s in her warm bath. It is

Friday night.  She wore a ribbon

like this to mass: pink… yes, maybe like this

little girl, somewhere below on bottom,

was missing her ribbon, missing, missing...

He coughed and spat. 

                        “I’m settin’ anchor boys—then I’ll row out

a little further.”  And with the wet ribbon he

pinched the gripped-smooth oar of the boat

pulling the hooks…