The Prison Ship Euphemia

Some were euphoric for gold—

Feverish—others sick—

For Philomena—Ettie—Hortence—

Lovers back home

Who could not be recovered

From the bottom

Of a black glass liquor bottle.

Poor unfortunates, they were found

Wandering the wharf—

Judged insane—

And locked in the Brig Euphemia.

Here she lies,

Square-rigged and buried alive—

Surrounded by concrete hulks—

Armadas of office towers

Anchored in place with I-beams—

Sunk through layers of mud—

Ephemera of tinware—

Copper spikes—bronze splices—

The black glass liquor bottles

That orphaned sailors.

Here lies Euphemia.

Scorpions bred fast in her hold.

They said—She’s more like a box

Than anything else—she is no sailer—

Tied up here along Howison’s Pier

Carrying: champagne—ale—elixir—

Oolong—imperial—gunpowder tea—

Almonds—pineapples—cheese.

So the city bought her

As a box for the jailer

To store the drunken sailor—

Correct his behavior—

Early in the morning.

The ship shared a name with a saint

Who died along the Bosporus Strait—

Tied to a wheel with sharp knives—correction—

Cast into a red-hot oven—correction—

Thrown to the lions. 

Correction—the lions licked her feet.

Correction—she gave up her soul to God

Through the mere bite of a bear.

Saints were reduced to relics

In this Gold Rush city

Where—way haul away—

Vigilantes sung hymns—and sea shanties—

And hung men on makeshift scaffolds.

Euphemia, more like a box

Than anything else—

Scorpions and sailors were stored

In your hold—

Poor unfortunates—

They were bound for the gold fields—

Euphoric—or sick from the contents

Of black glass liquor bottles.

Euphemia—ephemeral—feminine—

What was missing

In this city of—saints—sailors—

Scorpions—jailers?

Empathy—euphony—a female voice.

Euphemia—we prefer your spirit

Riding the waves, captained

By the saint not the jailer—

The names of loved ones

Howling through your rigging.

Ribs of oak—ribs of bone—

We share your cargo:

Scorpions—doves—holy water—rum—

But way haul away—

We’ll haul away together—

The way some were euphoric for gold.