a Viennese card game, circa 1910                                                              

There are two white captains
and two Moors. The pilots complement
their superiors, while the crew,
eight hands per master, wear
identical motley.
Available also, four ships
and a wild card
(starburst) which
luck can change into a schooner or
a beautiful woman.

The captains, pilots, crews
commence
from the globe’s four
corners. They share
a sun, a moon, and one 
treasure. The goal
is Africa. One must uphold
the proportions between
superior and subordinate
while obtaining
chips. There are several cards
representing either
cannons or cannonballs
to make matters more
interesting. Plus a pair 
of dice, for where
can we go without chance?

Say the Italian Moor
sails in sunshine
to Morocco and is rewarded
five black chips. Meanwhile
the British captain and
his swarthy pilot are stranded
with an overladen ship
somewhere between the Ibos and
Jamestown, Virginia.
The moon intrudes. When
the Spanish brigantine looms
on the horizon, they are actually
grateful, for they have cannons
and the Sevillian does not.

Both ships proceed
to Virginia. The arrow swings
east. Monsieur de la Roque
parades on deck, a small
white anchor stitched
on a blue field over
his heart. He surveys
his craft, finely strung
as a harp. If all goes well
we’ll reach Santo Domingo
tomorrow…

By now the Italian vessel
is safely through
the Suez Canal,
but a card shows “gale”
and it runs aground
on the western shore
of Madagascar, miraculously
unscathed. The captain falls
asleep on the beach, dreaming
of gold. Awake, he finds
ship and crew vanished, the
sun grinning and the treasure
secure at the bottom of the deck.
— Will he, 
                            
                              like the Spanish Moor,
be sold, merchant
to merchandise, or will
wild boars discover
him first? Monsieur de la Roque
has landed at Santo Domingo,
picking up rum and a slave
named Pedro. Such
flashing eyes and refined
manners! He’ll make
an excellent valet.

Adrift in the Atlantic
again, the Englishman
plays quoits with his pilot,
his eyes raw
from staring into the sun.
A desperate man, he will
choose the beautiful woman
and die.

                       While Pedro — who
it turns out, is none other
than the Captain from Seville,
has loosened the leg irons
and drugged the fastidious
de la Roque! Now the
white anchor heaves
on the breast of the Moor, and
the sun beams on the mutinous
crew of his brother, who have
cleared the Cape of
Good Hope and are bearing 
down on the Guinea coast.
Pedro heads

for Brazil — the women there,
he’s heard, are prodigious!
Then the arrow swerves
due south, “gale” shows
from nowhere, the treasure
drops to the ocean floor.
At the sight of so many
mountains surging
whitely ahead, a crew hand,
thinking he has gone
to hell, falls
overboard, his red sash
flaring. Even

Pedro, lashed to the mast,
believes he has glimpsed
through the storm’s
pearly membrane
God’s dark face swooping
down to kiss — as the main
sail, incandescent under
pressure, bursts 
like a star. The ship
splinters
on the rocks

                    just as, deep
in the Madagascan forests,
a black hand
lifts from a nest
an egg the bright
green of malachite…

At least one man happy
to have lost everything.
His crew will make it home
with tales of strange lands
and their captain’s untimely
demise.

In the Atlantic,
windstill.
The English vessel, so
close to home, stalls.
Nothing for them to do
but pass the time
playing cards.