12:00 AM, September 24, 2016 / LAST MODIFIED: 12:00 AM, September 24, 2016

Seafarers

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The sea holds the ship like one might hold a gemstone, lightly gripped between the tips of its forefingers, stuttering. It tries to be careful, just like you would.

God is the one who knows best, effort makes you careless.

You can feel the cradle under your shoes, tickling the soles of your feet. The ship is a mammoth, to her it is a sputtering nuisance. Like making love on the edge of a cliff, an added thrill of no use at all. To you, small as you are - you are a molecule, escaping from a tea bag, into warm water, dissolving. You are swallowed by the enormity of the sea. You sit at the edge of her tongue. If you're lucky, she might even spit you out. You of such merit - what does the sea have?

It is only beautiful.

It is only endless.

And you are at the mercy of its mouth and it's tongue, a gospel in your stomach, bones under your muslin skin.

Do you recall the last time you felt this small?

Perhaps when you were born, crying at the foreign, at the sterile, at the poor imitation of the glory of a womb - expanded.

You explode from somewhere close and warm and alive and into a great big world of evils and lesser evils, instruments and objects. It is apt that the birth is bloody. Apt that they name you after a deity.

You are on the tip of a nail.

The ship is yawning, the trees on its body stretch their limbs and the sea exhales at last. We lurch. You lie to so many when you say your name is Cecilia, Celeste, Ophelia.

Your name is Mary, and that is the truth.

In more ways than one.

The sea agrees, we lurch.

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