call me Ishmael

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today was about calling me Ishmael
i breathed the words into hot steam
finding myself in a cold bedroom,
tucked away from the frigid winter of mediocrity
in the middle of that kind of pale and cold daylight
with my own friendly cannibal and king’s son,
as bedfellow and shipmate, baking our warmth
thickly under layers of blankets, and a ring of soft pillows
considering the pursuit of whales and epics
and the captains of westward dreams
on the floating respite of an afternoon bed
from the snow storm outside and the night
we had fought and exhausted before
falling to talk about witchcraft and cannibalism
Moby Dick, and the father of the Arabs
call me Ishmael, a story about a woman
frost on the windows, hot tea in our cups
drifting after the mastery of a shared tale.
© lyw