Ishmael, or The Orphan

Before the God-bullied hull, call me— Before the God-bullied hull buckles, before The red flag unfurled on water bucks and drowns, Before the sky-hawk dives down, before The nail drives through the sky-hawk’s red-wing— Call me the nail driven through the wing And call me the wing driven through. A board On water is buoyant, I know: I cling to wood— A dictionary buckles and drowns. I know I do not drown: I’m abridged, afloat, call me— Sir, when my book arrives, when each page You’ve untied lets go the breath it held That was my breath, then my breath will not be mine— I think you’ll know. I know when doors open I mean to keep closed: study-door, desk-drawer. My wife found the key I hid beneath the fern. My pens she did not touch. She did not touch The hundred pages I left blank to fill other days. She took the cracked compass I keep for luck (the needle’s sharp, but stuck), took my green-glass Ink-pot, and centering the compass on my desk, Poured out each dark drop of ink unitl ink Seeped through cracked glass and left the compass Ink-full. The gold needle loosened, floated: a line. Bent back, I am taking you inside my head Turning back. Ahab bent The needle that refused North back to a magnet’s tow— Did, Ahab did, after The needle’s faith answered our question:No. How do you point at a horizon? Ask me. I know. Needle out your arm: close eyes: And turn in a circle. Inscribe a zero on the wood-deck— The Equator on zero latitudes lies. That is the truth, I know Sir, what name that bay a last page carves Out of no shore:ice? glacier? greenland? strand, shoal-of-white-sand? an artic-calm?