Two Poems by Michael J. Galko

Scenes from early afternoon in a tropical port

On the docks the stevedores, shirtless and glistening, 
appear as Greek statues in motion. They move 
only as fast as they have to, eighty-pound sacks

of sugar or coffee on their backs. Behind the town 
the jungle hisses and hums. The trees are covered 
with thick moss as if the loose ground were

climbing up to claim them. The light is so strong 
it bares the rivers hidden within thick leaves; 
even the giant canopies spread vast like the awnings

of seedy flophouses or bars. This light makes even 
the shade seek a further darkness. The bell approaches 
and, for a while, the end of work. Even the hammocks 

take siestas here. There is a relationship between 
the ambient heat and the bright color on the wash lines 
wrapped loose around the women’s thighs.

It is not a linear one. A gaggle of missionaries
disembarks from a rusted ark moored at pier 
thirty-three. They were white like potatoes 

but the sun, the unrelenting sun, has baked them 
into beets. The bodily fluid most often exchanged 
here is sweat. But there are others traded

in the earliest morning while the saved sleep deeply.
After the port bell rings the docks quickly clear 
and the beers of the American expatriates 

grow warm on their quayside tables. The veins 
of tar in the road melt to some hellish licorice 
as they deal the afternoon’s cards. Now it is easy 

to imagine the British Raj, its supply lines thinned 
like malarial blood. Only the ants are still busy.
What is the sun to them, worshipping their queen?

Some lines in praise of burial at sea

Let me just say how much
I’ve always loved seafood.
White, pink, red—no matter.
I’ve loved running a knife
through that soft fish flesh,
separating muscle from spine
and rib. And then the taste!

There were my early inclinations
to marine biology. I feel I owe 
these creatures the chance to observe my dropping body,
their big eyes curious as I stare back 
with light-lost and soul-lost globes
at their many forms, the wonder 
	of their hidden world.

It comes down to cycles, to return.
Carbon, nitrogen, the trace
elements my body only keeps 
	in trust.
So back into the mix with them.

And who doesn’t love a sea story? 
A mystery? What’s left of me 
might fraternize with the remains
of pirates, sailors, mermaids.

All my friends and family 
will be gathered at the rail
in fellowship, in a mourning 
awash in the dawn’s light.
Splash! Bubbles, then, for a moment—

who will take the first bite, which fish
will run the white blades of his teeth
into the manna of this slowly
	falling, spiraling
			flesh?  

The guests will then dine on oysters, 
making a necklace of the rocky shells
while I rest, at last, in a peaceful
			descending repose.