Regarding the half-eaten calves of midshipman Purvis off the Brazilian equator, 1812
A fortnight
since fire consumed the ship
in the mid-Atlantic.
Ten days since the last rain.
The launch started with twelve.
One jumped overboard
with his madness, certain
he could swim it.
The next three
were hoisted over
with all due respect
and ceremony.
A fourth of these
sank two days ago.
Then, yesterday,
Purvis passed.
But his body rested astern
by silent assent.
What seaman
has not regarded,
with longing even,
the fine tan legs
of his fellow sailors?
But these bloated shanks?
Whose idea was this–
this blasphemy
against the vaulted
primacy of the soul–
this heretical notion
that the dead’s flesh
will somehow serve them
after their death?
Some few, their eyes
red and scarce by day,
have considered this