Baltimore

Baltimore

My younger son, a story he recites,
of man in seaside town in Ireland.
In long ago, town by the Moors attacked.
From town, one hundred people were kidnapped
Sold in bazaars of northern Africa
as galley slaves, as harem’s populace.
Of them no news was ever heard again.
The story of the man who town betrayed,
a poem that he authored in his cell.
Who saw that through the Moors he could acquire
town for himself and for his family.
They tried him for his treason and condemned
to death. The means of execution strange.
Tied naked to a post near water’s edge.
Tide out, and in, up to his neck, each day.
Was left to die, whatever way was fine.
In spring time, water cold, and air was brisk.

“O’Driscoll mocks me, mercy he withholds.
He tells me of the way that I will die.
In poem form, perhaps, my soul will save:

‘For treason and your filthy grasping hands.
At water’s edge, to stake you will be tied.
Tried and condemned you are for avarice.
The waters rise to level of your chest.
With water, pilchards come to swim around
the stake, your legs. Your genitals consume.
These fish, with spell, enchanted they will be.
I bought a curse from woman in the woods.
The vial into the water’s edge I pour.
Attracts those fish, aggression does instill.
As water comes in with that first day’s tide.
These fish will come. They sense the greed you have.
The death that by a thousand cuts, such pain.
The pilchard trade you wanted for yourself.
Not normally carnivorous like that.
Their tortures you will live with ‘til you’re dead.
Their empty bellies only filled with this:
when they consume the means by which you fucke.
The means by which you thought to gain that trade.
My workmen sold as slaves to heathen scum.
Mistake you made to think your plan would work.’”

Sir Walter said this prayer unto his God:

“This, my confession, hope to save my soul.
My life is forfeit, fact, there is no doubt.
Bites from sardines until my groin does bleed.
When pilchards eat me, this world to the next.
My member gnawed, to heaven’s gate approach.
St. Peter will look down between my legs.
Remember, please, the night the cock crowed thrice.”

My son, each night, in tavern, he did hear.
These words, condemned and gloating, men repeat.
His soul is soft. For Coppinger he cried:

“No man should have to suffer awful fate!
I know that to the Moors he did betray.
Forgiveness we should give as we receive!”

I shook my head, his innocence betrayed.
Of justice, lacking in analysis.
God’s mercy is of course as infinite.
Fish bellies’ volumes: size of cock and balls.