on this pewter ship of sacred kin,
embroidered sails bearing paislies, peacocks, and curlicues
we are borne away a motley crew
scuffed knuckles bearing marks anew
as we learn reverse rowing.
no cloying here, no braided heads
we’ve been hosed down
nozzles on full blast
washing upturned noses of past
tweaking truculence into temperance.
all hands aboard meshed
work hard the bristly slack ropes
bear holes at the knees
leaving striations on skin.
browse the gangway then,
we are a plumed company
looking out laughing eyes at new places
shining from in the sweaty faces
of sacred kin on this pewter ship.
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