A pirate’s meal makes no promises,
no apologies. Pickled
spicy meat floating
like hard dried tongue

in briny lard is
true to itself
like the seaborne brigand
and all poetry can only be.

A poem through sleight of hand,
the weight of words and
my great hunger,
pretends to satisfy

but it has no allegiances.
I know this when I
bite a bone, split my tooth!
A ruse, a scheme,

a plot has brought me to the table.
There is no table! It’s a ship,
and I must look sharp
or I’ll be overboard. Best eat

with one hand gripping the mast. Eat
with eyes peeled
to the tipped horizon.

© Christine Kallman, 2000, All Rights Reserved