The Linnet's Wings :Take All My Loves, My Love - Page 58

The Linnet´s Wings of my eyes, I was no more after that motion of iron into bone. I walked backward down the close docks towards the marsh where flowers could be gathered. There I made my mother a wreath and bringing it to her bed, as she kept to it in death, the colors of the violence raped by her dishonor, so they said, kept still the muddy waters that would in my dream bring me to my downing. We are forty-two men in the company of rats and our own pestilence. Many will suffer that perdition of death on this journey to the East. Does this dream signify that we will fail to know the pathways to riches and the east? As I write down this speak I count three silver coins and one bronze piece. They were my inheritance. They became with melancholy my breed of knowing. I forget it all as I am covered with the dank sweat of drink and the heat of. I live inside that mask of my mother. I was nine when murdered by demons or as most say a human beast without mouth or teeth. He was flame that fire she said that burns from the inside. I will strip the heat from life. I will keep it out of reach. I will preserve the madness so it can be released as quiet dust or ashes from the dead. In this year of our Lord, 1611, I chart our following winds and tack easy through the Restless sales as this yacht points West by South West towards the end of the rocks and the beginning of the sun. Here now, as we gather in our hope, at that space above that last cloud the English land falls away into the shoals. So many rivers have no bottoms. So many last words before we murder our self on this great adventure. Perhaps now, I can forget the dream. Every calm night I suffer its recoil. My father gathers wood for a fire. Mother speaks her Dutch tongue cursing the night in her drunken fervor. As I watch her kiss strange hands and opening her eyes, she leaps the fires. Suddenly, caught, this man, this demon strikes her skull with an axe. She bleeds that face that murder caught. I cannot forget his scowl. He is a leper of words. His meanings forget themselves and he escapes into the back farms of Bristol and is heard no more. As I watch the sea rise up in a storm that would cost us on this first night two of our crew, I wrote down what I heard when I dreamed or did I dream. I sleep in the crease of her tawny skin. Her hair is thick with fat covering its base to show the strength of her neck. She breathes and slowly I can smell the ocean as the flood rises against those antimony cliffs that stagger down the river towards the bay. Every heron mocks my shadow as they peck at my path. My legs stronger every hour I rise faster up the short cliff and standing inside out looking out over the island where wild beasts keep company with the natives of this place. I am of this place. I cannot leave. I will die here. There is no ocean left to cross. I saw it disappear in that dark dream bred from my mouth when I sucked at that tea she made from some unknown hemp that they gathered as flowers. Every storm has no eyes. How can I see past honorable journals crafted from memory and distances we shift when melancholy stuff us stopping as desire leaves. We age even as we young raise up our hard arms and waving our instrument strut to keep the passion as some past stupor falls down into its own pail to denature as fetid stools beguile the beasts and mock the insects again rides the other stair well I am a stranger to myself. I did not drown. I caught the skin of the rocks and cut, my hand burned I lifted my heart up and pounded Ska Nee as she opened her wings and flew like that crow 58