Robin Ray
Lost at Sea

In paradise, they don't auction the stars
     like they used to;
          there's hardly anyone left to raise
               a numbered paddle.
Absentee bids are null and void.
     Mistakes, always unfashionable in the
          gamble.
The mid-Atlantic cracks open to swallow
     an errant skiff, diurnal emissions of
          scorn spat by a hurricane.
The fishermen lament the bullion they'll
     no longer savor:
          mutton biryani from the clay ovens
               at Arsalan Kolkata,
          sea urchin sashimi from the kitchen
               at Jungsik Seoul,
          shrimp ceviche courtesy of the chef
               at Le Cinq Paris.
The tides mourn the defeated sky, death of
     her rainbows, death of solitude.
Ghosts of Spanish galleons prance in the
     liquid carpet, cannons blasting afield.
The ocean's heartbeat pounds from the
     depths, a rhythmic chant the Yorùbá
          of Côte d'Ivoire recognize as
               ku ile, ku ile,
                    welcome home, welcome home.

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