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Poem

One, waiting at the outpost prison on the shore,
Two, atop the soundless ship across the bay
and nearly to the open sea, 
both still in sight and bound as one
to the relentless motherland of Spain. 

On the deck, a priest walks restlessly,
his hope compliant to a fading God--
and by his blood, compliant to the state--
absolves, and bends to royal will... 
and then  the pillowed sail is made 
to spill the wind, and everything is still.
            
The messenger is at the signal light.
Was it a grace to lift the prisoner
inside his head, the spirit doppelganger
raging?   "Will it never let me go?...
In nomine.....no,  I may never 
bless a death like this!" 

His cassock, collar, torn away
to strike the shrouded sea
the naked cleric shrieks renunciation
of his vows,
and of his breath,
and of his soul. 

And as he also disappears into the depth,
the fabric of eternity, for him once whole,
is rent into a thousand threads; the chant
of "Dies Irae, Dies Illa"
and a thousand echos do not die,
but in the darkness, swell forever
far beneath the waves.
              ~

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