Siobhan Logan
The Pirates of Carcinoma Bay
When they come, their Jack flag
is the red flush of a raging temperature;
your eyes glaze over. We raid stores
for potassium pellets, cold flannels,
a constant barrage of narcotics.
The sea churns with jetsam
and cannon smoke chokes the air
but nothing slows
the looming buccaneer ship.
By the time grappling hooks
are thudding into our deck, you barely
know your maiden name. Mistake
our bowsprit’s sea nymph
for your eldest daughter. We lash you
to the mast in your nightgown,
surround you with cutlasses drawn.
But there’s neither swash
nor buckle from these rovers
in midnight green. One cross skull earring.
Their sunburnt hands dispatch
our flimsy defences with ease, ransack
the ship, looting the rum.
No parlay offered, no prisoners taken
but one hostage. Stretchered
down the gangplank into their hold
you murmur polite assent.
Strung out on the rigging, we debate
furiously what manner of bribe
could win you back. They hoist anchor.
From the crow’s nest, our eyeglass
tracks their black mainsail.
The horizon empties.