At the Sign of the White Horse

We called it a day; we called it a night.
There was absinthe; there was tsipouro.
There was amnesia; there was oblivion.
The waves far out were wild and white capped
But those close in lapped and lipped at the shore

Like whispers, like kisses.
A red sailed schooner made in for safe haven.
The barman’s arms were tattooed with skulls
And crosses like kisses round his neck were a rosary.
Or a garrotte. I remember thinking. If thinking it was.

I was three sheets in the wind and listing to starboard.
So I offer this witness with caveat and warning.
The children played on the sand — their squabbles microcosmic
To the storm that was brewing. Chair toppling squalls blew
My lines off my sheet, my sheets off the lines

So much to remember; so much to forget.
The sun was setting; a new moon rising.
It was sextile Neptune if it matters to you.
It matters to me, my first day sober.
I died in your arms at the sign of the white horse.

My old self tucked in a bed of soft clay
In that port of white towers, white houses, white streets.
The leaves that dropped on my grave were blessings
The white rose you laid there a token of hope
The winter would shrive me, would scour me, would save me.

When I rose from the dead I was dressed in white linen.
My angel of mercy, my angel of kindness,
Wreathed in myrtle, smelling of pine.
On your milk white steed with your milk white promises:

I was lady
        of as much land
                                as I could ride in a long summer’s day.