For a Moment, Terrorism
For a Moment, Terrorism
By Bill Coolidge
Published: March, 2003
a black and white blotched, high-sided old fishing boat
begins to circle my sailboat,
two guys, blue shirts, standing
hatchet faced, rifles in hand, peer at me
waves bounce me around.
Underneath my jib I spot
a long gray hulk tied to port.
"oh, oh"
I vaguely remember the new law
100 or 500 yards from military vessels?
I'm about 50 yards and closing.
I turn the tiller, sails flop over
against wind and current.
pushed backwards, sails listless
I start my outboard and rev it up.
These guys are frowning,
they motor towards me,
I wave, thumbs up, signaling
"I'm out of here."
But I'm not,
vague headway, slip sliding toward Sugarloaf Island.
Their splotchy boat gives no leeward room.
I'm about to run aground.
pull up the centerboard
I barely skim past the red buoy, sweat pouring.
the men in sunglasses,
hands on rifles, turn away.
On deck of the gray ship
a man with gun has his binoculars
pinned on me.
war undeclared
enemies everywhere, me,
it seems, on a Sunday afternoon sail
under my breath I swear at them
the president, the pentagon.
my acquiesence, my dutiful silence
Orgasm
dawn darkens, clouds close, no sun
splattering slices of flying drops
slide under my cracked open window
wind: big brawny
masts rock,
wobbly buoy lights disappear
darkened in the mad rush of seasonal storm
thirty minutes later
Shakleford Banks rises up
the Atlantic beyond
as if a painter were filling in the horizon
another day,
the egret flies low
lands on oyster bed
