Kahlia

From starboard you wail to me, Is this our place, terrified moans across the sea, a crescent rising moon, our lives turned about face, wondering if there’s room, surrounded by the boat’s infirmary, auxiliary lights trace, a brittle wind folded scree, no matter what the news, indifferent stars won’t lace, our lifeboats to the Booms, they bring us into Sicily, Our Lady keep us safe, in these Gardens of Gethsemane, you who know each rhythm, God shall light your face, in our cold night of fortune, as we kneel to pray