One evening Edward Teach

prowled these cold waters.

His grackle eyes marveled

how the moon spread her apron,

carving clumsy scrimshaw,

the waves breaking adventurers’

backs on the reef. He drank rum

mixed with gunpowder, spitting

out the flame, he pistol

whipped his messmates.

He dried their bones on a white beach,

cast their skulls in molten gold:

Circe demanded macabre

purses. Teach met her

in dark fog, the scarf of gold skulls

alive and breathing around

her throat. She pressed

a teacup to her clay lips,

watching the leaves settle.

“Come here,

Come here, Blackbeard.”

His soul crept from the teacup.