As Romantics we long for that oceanic feeling we felt in the womb,
when we were divine and fed by ambrosia.  ——Robert Bly

Our knapsacks full of vitamins
we set out for Ataraxia.
The first mate said there would
be sights to see so
we opened our eyes.
The waters rose like a watered rose.
The sky was the color
of a jungle pig.
The first mate said that he once had
a sister who seized.
This was scant comfort.
The morning after the first night we
woke up like rats on a grain ship.
We were biddable.
Our heads were full of isolation.
The sun was the color of the sun
we had dreamed of.
The doctor took the temperature
and ran with it.
We were all family, that was the
paramount truth. And when Ataraxia
finally came in sight
we decided as one that we would
sail around a little longer.
We used our knapsacks
the way Gorgons use their peepers.
Someone mentioned the Golden
Fleece. Someone mentioned
Charybdis. All I know is that if I
ever get back home I am
going to call everyone I used to know
and tell them the best
advertisements in my heart. I will tell
them that I have returned
from Ataraxia, though, in truth, we
never went back there.
In truth we all thought we knew, ul-
timately, what was best.


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