The Quartermaster

By Alex Pasquale

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I sit in a pew and words fall around me.

I try and stand against the storm.

The mast bends and creaks,

The sail cracks like a whip.

I am pushed back.

The captain and I butt heads

And the crew won’t listen.

Bradshaw’s in the brig,

And the man in the crows nest is singing.

I yell, “Listen to me! I’m the quartermaster!”

And he keeps belting that song.

On stage up there, on high.

After all he’s done.

The sound of 112 hymnals closing in unison,

I jolt from my hammock.

Its hanging from the ceiling,

When the boat rocks, I don’t feel a thing.

Golden crucifixes spin as they rain diagonally,

Striking the ground, embedding into the soft dirt.

The captain’s walking to shore.

I sink, I can’t swim.

A hand reaches down to my flailing, drowning arm.

I can’t reach back.