Strapped to the mast—
Shackled ankles, knotted knees,
Hands and wrists behind in binds,
Chest and groin restrained in chains—
The Master countermands himself,
Deplores himself, betrays himself.
He begs his men to set him free.
The oarsmen—bending, pushing, pulling,
Staring aft, hearing naught—
See the tortured Master screak—
His face a scrawl of urgent need.
They watch his craving beg and crawl.
A thousand pulls, two thousand, three—
And on they row another four.
The Master’s jaw—disjointed, loose.
Another thousand pulls before he weeps.
Ten thousand more and still he sobs.
Six nights elapse. Untied he falls.
* * *
Penelope reclaimed yet wonders why
Her husband wakes and wanders through
The darkness, weaving fragments of a song
Into a doleful, weary, fragile fabric.