My body is a ghost ship, seaworthy at half sail.
The captain's quarters undisturbed, the bedsheets
folded at the corners, silk pillows at the head.
Cargo still stacked up, neatly down below,
decks washed clean with salt and spit, not a soul on deck.
It is terrible luck to carry a woman on a ship like this.
I carry this woman here, hidden, so there were two aboard.
The sail runs up, with a white flag, made of lace and satin,
tied at the neck with pearls and something blue.
A man downstairs, calls for his supper.
Laundry whips on the line. Adrift in the wide open sea.
The teakettle rattles at boil. Screen doors slam.
My body is a ghost ship. Mutiny. Mutiny. Mutiny.