Cortez Arrives at San Juan de Ulloa

He belongs to no one now.
He trims his beard with tiny golden scissors. He whittles
At his fingertips.

Each shoulder in its armor, the liquidy hollow
Of an egg. He fits his feet in stirrups.
He yanks the rotten tooth.

And this is Cortez in his boots: Lord of Fire,
Lord of Death, whose ship is burning, who spits and gives commands
Into the air,

That he is never going back; to the one wave turning
On another; to that ash heap; that boat;
That murdering sea.

David Keplinger
The Clearing
New Issues Poetry & Prose

Copyright © 2005 by David Keplinger.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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