By Andrew R. Duckworth
The Departure
There is no boat.
Pay attention
It was cold and so they rowed and kept rowing, shore further in the distance and waves gentle at first. They would occasionally look at each other, all of them, as if to say something their mouths wouldn’t utter, maybe questions that they knew couldn’t be answered. They only kept rowing, directionless, away from shore being all that mattered, with a breeze pouring in, with a breeze pouring in.
Those eyes were as wide as those wrinkled eye lids could muster, tired and anxious, tired and anxious. And the tears they once dropped had never really stopped. Look to the unknown horizon one mind says while another can’t stop looking at the ever vanishing shoreline, soon to be swallowed up by the reflective ripples. New worlds await, one says, new worlds await.
How did they decide to leave without a guide, only row to where they’ll go, where the waters will take them, storm or calm, storm or calm, with little left for them to show. They just kept dreaming of an ark until they disembarked, how the waters would save, how the waters would save, how even the most fearless among them had to be brave, with a breeze pouring in, storm or calm, new worlds await.
Who among us brought the liquor one speaks, the thing that breathes stories to life, the medicine for our pain? And another breaks the news that they are alone in the rain, with a breeze pouring in, a bit stronger gust of wind, one that speaks over the waves.
I have a story of a man in a fish, for three days! How he ran from his God and never got very far but oh how far he got with God’s aid! Ears were closed as the water rocked them back and forth, with a wind pouring in, and some gathering clouds, the shoreline gone, gone, gone far away.
In the Age of Running
There is no cold.
Pay attention
Before the setting off, it was before the setting off, in the days of pain, in the days of lost living, in the days of fast living, in the age of running. The world, having become ice and tundra, was lonely. The glass was broken from the windows, too many rocks thrown from nearby houses—all of them just as fragile. And the garden was empty of fruit, empty of value, empty of nourishment. But in their hands were their mouth, eyes, and ears, taking in sound, taking in sight, keeping mind in perpetual flight.
It was before the setting off, in the days of strange amazement, in the days of the dazed and unknown struggle, in the age of running. Blind men saw too much in those days. And the blizzards blew through and the buzzards came out and picked the unclaimed clean. And the loudest voices were but noise, noise meant to satisfy but never truly. And the stars never shown except for on the television where there were far too many to count. And one man left and then another and then another, groups, teams of them, to the shore, to the shore, to disembark and be no more in the days of pain.
The Broken Sail
There is no sail.
Pay attention
And as they drifted off, drifted off, drifted on the waves with the wind picking up, the sail was torn in two. And some drifted to despair as the tools were brought out, the only tools of the journey. One patch made, one patch failed, one patch made, one patch failed with the wind picking up and overcast skies. One patch made, one patch failed.
Who can really say when one will live or die, or when the world will warm, amid a constant cry of disbelief? One patch made and one patch failed, the running age indeed derailed on waves the size of houses with no shoreline in sight and no clear direction on the waters.
At the End of the Storm
There is no storm.
Pay attention
At the end of the storm, one remained. A lonely soul, all others tossed out to their drowning. Just one remained, cold, eyes wide, knowing their end—on a sea they chose.
