Salvos of memories sail through her mind, 
each one its own galleon, sloop, barque, frigate 
forming a most daunting navy. 
Metal rubs against metal so that no man can see 
the surface of the sea for her might. 
Nostalgic sadness, nostalgic gladness 
— like flotsam turned to bombs shoved in cannons — 
erupt in battle for preeminence in first thought 
to destroy other ships with friendly fire 
until ‘mad’ is all Armada knows of her name. 
No hold on the last token of control she owns 
in a panthalassa that assumes it possesses her form 
created without an outer ear to hear 
how she begged inside the whale’s womb. 

Preview from my upcoming 2023 collection The Soul Without a Summer.

(c) 2022 Saralyn Caine. All rights reserved.