Plank

My Dearest P.,
Sorry I haven't written lately.
Been busy navigating these perilous straits, 
plowing through choppy chum-laced waters
with a spyglass jammed into my eye socket, and 
a cold glass of undrinkable liquid sweating
in my hand. Sometimes I get tired of the effort it takes 
to stitch these tattered sails together.
Wooden pegs. A wick of twine
spiraling down one's neck. Burning bile. Acid reflux.
A worm of wax curling down a rope. 
The corkscrew I forgot about in bed
and rolled over onto
is still jammed up there somewhere, clicking
against the broken sextant. 
Hope is an icy splinter I chomp down upon
and curl my lips around, saliva squirting
from the corners of my mouth as the ship
spins circles in the middle of this sea of snarls.
Sky of powdered charcoal, waves of frothy curd.
Lightning lashes the mast, garlands the pole
with twists of knotted luminescence. 
The small hairs on the back of my neck 
stand up and smolder, crackle with static electricity
...or something like that. You know how it is.
We load the cannon, lob iron spitballs at the clouds,
knowing it changes nothing. 
Give my love to the children and the pets,
if you haven't been driven to devour them yet. 
Best wishes,
S.