Mariner

All mariners are lonely,

even surrounded by a crew;

no bond can lift the fog 

that settles in the bones,

the unshakeable coldness

of any alliance with the sea.

We do not speak of it -

do not speak of it --

who encouraged this pact

of silence where the expression 

of pain is too uncomfortable?

Until some of us learn 

to orbit one another as if we were moons,

or in the circled dance

of an albatross, lost

to ancient paths that render us

unreachable, untouchable. 
 

And an albatross beholds the ocean

in glides between elements,

above the chorus of waves

that splinter against cliff and

shore: the birth of flint children,

and the grey beard of the mariner - 

foam inched into every ugly crag.

The sea has teeth, devours

like shame, longlines of death

to black-browed mollymawks

who funnel brine for squid.

I have never killed an albatross,

but I understand a descent 

of regret, the jags of guilt, 

the communion of sorrows

it binds within you. 

Black-browed mollymawk is another name for the black-browed albatross. 
Longlines are fishing lines that are a cause in the decline of albatross populations - the hooked lines snare and kill them. 

This poem is based on reading the Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Thalassarche_melanophris_1838.jpg