I stand against the mast of our wrecked ship, tied to the tide.
She’d surrendered the battle, called me the “subjugator of all who ride the waves.”
I escaped the San Juan prison with the booty, sailing for the soft green meadows of home.
Then the tide turned.
Was it worse losing the treasure, or losing it to a woman who calls herself a pirate?
No matter now, for yonder she breaks the horizon; white sails and yellow hair a flyin’.
My bloody wounds call the great finned monsters, and the tide is rising.
The tide is, the tide, the …