The Cruise

Here fuchsia is not sun.
It is the skin of your forehead
Tightening like pomegranate.
And these seeds spilling out
Are not your thoughts,
Your life,
But the undoing of your life
As you wander
The corridors of this
Ship, trying to find

And even as you wandered
Onto wife and kids,
They betrayed you and loved
You. They bring you
Here now
To the right elevator.

They count the medication
In your pocket
In this violent chartreuse,
This island port,
With mounds of coconut
And mahogany trees tumbling
From hillsides.

Here orange is not orange,
It is the madness –
As sun licks each side
Of the branch, then seeks
Tender tissues.
It is your wife
In thin cotton
Ignoring you as you speak
And a daughter staring
Into the distance, loving
You from afar.

It is the elevator
That isn’t right
The key that does not unlock
The cruise staff,
All now closest friends,
Walking you to your room.
It is the mango splitting
In your mouth
The exotic flood
In which you drown
And indigo flat as
Teardrops at the stern.

Here you float
And wait
And laugh so loud
Even the Gods hear you.
They won’t save you

With cruise cap over
Silver hair
And eyes the color
Of your mother’s.
With my mouth.
I watch you slurp
Your coffee.
The island wind fills
Up your shirt
As you ask
The fifth time,
“What island is this?”