Spritless, our boats, Mac. No
finger pointing out over our waves,
no figure below, watching the course
bare-breasted and terrifying. Not
for us. Just the stem,
I’d have taken
any craft north that first time, no matter
the omens or lack of charms. I was the sprit’s
spirit over waves. Over ice. Go & go
& go. The old word’s spreat,
a sprout, shoot, branch. We push
through anything, weeds that we are.
Grasses thrust up through parking lot
pavement, vines twisted through
windows. Wanted or not.
spike or spear. We can’t unlink
from violence, I know. We push
through what was whole: air,
wave, ice, world all uninvited.