Defying the April Poet Pirate
“Yer supposed to write a poem every day, arrr!” says the April Poet Pirate,
horny at exactly the wrong time, his plank outstretched and ready.
They all watch–the skeletons in shackles, the deck-boy missing an eye,
raggedy men gathered around a gallon of rum, the decent kind
he keeps secreted away for when the crew has been especially on fleek.
“Yer not allowed to use that there word unless it be about eyebrows,”
he growls and slips his parrot an Oxy-infused cracker, strong enough
to knock his wings the fuck back and make him bob his head up and down
to a Marley song, the only one he knows how to repeat, no woman, no cry,
while women on every piss-poor island from here to Barbados cry plenty.
“I hate the water, and ships, and this whole scene,” I say to him
as I I lower one of the rickety life-boats and hop in, stuffing my pockets full
of paper and quills and inkwells before I jump, grinning like a slapped fool.
“You’ll be dead before morning,” declares the April Poet Pirate.
“Maybe,” I say, beginning to row, putting my worn back into it.