Oct/Nov 2016 Poetry

The Seafarer

by Jen Davis

Image courtesy of the British Library Online Photo Collection

The Seafarer

He doesn't rage
because he isn't numbing pain
or drowning sorrows,
but searching for joy
and horizons
he hasn't found with me.

He doesn't miss work
in any sense.
Rather, it consumes him
until he drowns it out,
waterlogged and left to ferment
until tomorrow.

He doesn't forget.
Not often, at least,
but sometimes.
The memories are painted blue,
the conversations heavy
and muddled.

He doesn't leave,
because he's never really here.
But I think about it sometimes
when the weight of loneliness
and the riptide of fear
drag me under.

He doesn't see me,
or the way I move
or dream.
I live alone
with a good man
and his dunnage.


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