by Donna Pucciani

The night of the red moon floats
on the breath of a drunken sailor
who cries out for vodka and his mother.

In cloud-purple foam, his ship tosses,
and after black waves pummel the rocks,
sun-splinters dash a blue morning sky
with a handful of gulls.

He dreams of how to make thunder,
dances all night under the deck,
beats time on a barrel, captures the wind
in his ears, and with his sun-blistered lips
drinks up the storm drop by drop.

(First published in The Mid-America Poetry Review, IX: 1, Spring 2008)

Editors' note: Read "A Cup of Fine Tea: Donna Pucciani's "Lunar Eclipse"" here.