If there was a point
a sharp and needling point
where I should have said
no
it was in a past I no longer recall
in a place none of my ships will sail
the star that guided them
faded now and pale
the compass point
a warped and wheedling point
urging me in another direction
go
your cut in my jib
devastatingly glib
the broadside that
left me listing to starboard
yet grateful
to be right for a change
and remembering the art
of reading my own chart
no longer drifting at your chosen
longitude and attitude
below the equator
where the sky reads strange
Kristie Cunningham: Poetry 