In the galleon hold, we played cards on a packing crate;
Brag, mostly, while the oil lamp swung above us,
making red shadows sluice first starboard, then to port.
We heard the pelting storm and pretended we didn't,
Captain on deck braying orders into the gale,
gums smacking wetly over the worn-down headstones of his teeth.
The ship listed and heeled, heeled and listed,
our stomachs surging as we tried to concentrate
on the next hand. Me clutching my three kings,
squinting at their swords, as if they were the horizon,
as if they were dry land.
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