Blue steel rusted by the sea, it was worth only its salvage, years of South and North Poles eating at her, while the rats who had run aboard on mooring ropes were eating son and daughter bred inside her belly— generations of need in the galley and the staterooms. No one wanted to own her dereliction in this changed town, so she sat there, the Lyubov Orlova.
Cash from Hibernia and Terra Nova cancelled what we once knew about shipwrecks, when green water ran on the slanted decks of wood ships broached to and on their beam ends remembered in folk songs where nothing mends.
Revenant myself, I may not cavil about how art and memory unravel, followed my chances on the mainland, got tenure, found the taxpayers’ open hand, and am now a Jonah where I was born, confused by both the fog and the foghorn; returning to my peculiar Nineveh,
I have no message: I’ve just been away.
A tugboat dragged that ghost ship out to sea, lost it when a rope broke or they let it free just outside this country’s jurisdiction.
The Irish papers loved the rodent fiction and supposed it landing soon in Galway, full of cannibal rats looking for new prey. It joined all that history of drowned fleets, without song or poem but a million tweets.