Tug: as in forcibly;
as in the taught rope
seesawing children
over a muddied field,
threads wild & readying
to snap; as in apron strings
& whatever a boy must do to
remind his mother he’s nothing
like his father, not yet; as in
a vessel
steering other vessels
a bit closer to land, not
that drowning has lost
its allure in a country
this devoutly starless;
as in to labor, toil, strive
to be stars, still, as if night’s
nothing more than a sanding
down of our rougher edges &
horizon an impossible anchor;
as in strenuous forgiveness,
opposing forces meeting somewhere
near center to redraw their maps, over
deathbeds promise for the first time
all ships return to port eventually,
which tonight sounds a lot like yes,
I’m sorry; as in
eventually we all muddy our knees
clawing back up onto land, how it is,
despite, perhaps because of, its hardness:
the land here holds me.
Grey Sparrow Journal 