Pillage

by Jason Nelson

Obviously this is weird. She wants to see my camera and my boat. I’m a

pirate with ripped sails hanging from my pockets. But I’m not wearing

pants or a shirt or dress. Nothing attached to my clothing resembles

clothing attachments. She knows how rudders push plankton to lower,

colder waters. She likes the way light makes pictures, how framed

images mean certain things to various people. The other pirates throw

horses into the sea. Without wind, they feel vague. A man with one leg,

and one eye and one hat, gargles out commands for sailing, not riding.

Technically this is strange. Not weird in a dreamy, or there she is with

the Russian guy way. But odd because I don’t own a ship, not anymore.

Around two days past, much behind my current position, I sold the ship,

the crew, the ragged sails and the camera. The woman who bought them

knew I was a pirate, and asked for a receipt. I searched, but the only

paper in my pockets were maps for gold and directions for focusing on

objects ten to twenty feet away.

one version of where things go

(or how to make a living writing poetry)</h3>

Wait. Wait until the last car leaves with the train. Rain handles itself, the

old woman will say, an umbrella types and casts a reel. Calling from a booth in

a field filled with water are the people you want to avoid. They might appear to

be fishing. But look closely at their line and hook, their brief sequence of

notes drawing your ear, and you will find them checking pockets for change.

Stare the tracks down for crushed quarters. Hold the soaked ties in one hand and

pull up on the rails. Fire makes things straight, the old woman will say,

resined wood begins where everything begins. You will strain, recalling random

seconds of past straining. And when you become worn and the ties sink into

gravel, you should consider polishing your speech. Make the words appear as

chairs or plush toys. Make each sentence repeat the structure of the first.

Still your vibrating cords and collect rainwater in a mug that reads “World’s

Greatest Suspension Bridge.” But before you speak, before you take all of this

far too far away, huddle with the superstars, those famous sounding names,

stacked in feuding groups of eight or five. They won’t offer much warmth or soft

places to fondle, but the station has closed, you’ve lost your wallet and the

wise old woman wears her shawl like an iron gate.