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RootlessTo Laura Craig Mason's previous piece


Green water doesnít 
hold romance
when you have emptied
your lunch
into its mystery.
Watching particles
of something you 
once enjoyed
break up
then sink away
into the churning waves
by the rudders
kills any hope
of a grandiose life at sea.

You name the boat
its shape, size, or intent
and Iíve puked off of its bow
cried in its belly
and prayed
at its deck
before parents
god and sea spirits
to touch land again.

Sailors bother me
so free to give up land
and family:
not attached to anything
buoyed by the sea.

Pirates manage to 
perplex  and bore me
in the very same second.
Too many romance novels
and close encounters
with barrel chested men with
bad fashion sense
could have caused this.
Because he sailed in
Jumped ship
to ship
story to story
woman to woman
and his cavalier stare
and smile
failed to quell the unease
of the one woman he couldnít woo:
a daughter
land locked
tired of rocking
and following
and jumping
story to story boat to boat.
Tired of 
all of the unnecessary
unsteady footing
and sloppy deck
of avoidance.

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