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The father and the son
are still in a boat

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out there with spinnakers
curved like pillows where

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they can rest their heads.

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Spin-drift turns into curlews,
confused by the weather news.

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The sky is a fish packed in ice.

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There is a low sun and stiff
silver wands on the horizon,

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and the rudder groans as the
father and the ghost pass on.

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No son on a grade, but
a migraine headache,

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an angry ring on the pavement.

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The boy wonders, why a
famous tyrant marched his men

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into a blizzard.

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And how the Russians burned
Moscow with only one candle.

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He sees three choices,
join, kill, or run away.

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What would his grandmother say?

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Blessed are you when people
hate you and denounce you

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for choosing eternity.

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