This one is from a different archive: from a bunch of papers and printouts I made for a class. I believe the assignment had something to do with writing about a room from our childhood.

She used to sing every night
quiet, peaceful songs.
I’ve forgotten most of them
but I still remember her voice,
and her silhouette on the edge of the bed.
Her voice was not a siren’s,
but the call of gulls and a familiar foghorn announcing:
the ship has safely returned.
It brought us peace and guided our voyage
to the land of dreams–but dreamers often lie.

It was dark as she sang,
so we could see nothing
(not her, not my father’s chest against the wall,
filled with treasures from across the sea).
Her ship sailed by night,
so our ears were content
to hear the gulls and the waves
lull us to sleep.

One evening the sea was quiet
and the horn did not sound.
We expected shipwreck
but heard nothing
and slept uneasy that night,
no song to guide us to our dreams.

The horn we heard at sunrise was not hers.
It was light and warm and everything was wrong:
the stars were gone by day.
My father’s ship sang songs of shipwreck,
and it sounded empty and hollow.
It did not weep. I took up his ensign
and followed his course:
there was no other course to follow.