We are on a boat,
Without anchor.
Though a captain may deem us unfit to sail,
We resolve to teeter between death and quick surrender;
No crewmen to mend and render our sails;
No one but our own—.

And so we dip in again: tumble and crash.
No settlement to anchor our waves;
No certain—destination.
We navigate—as it were—
Blind.

What we do we can learn from no one—no woman, no man.
No one has yet been this far before.
We cannot expect to repeat a voyage;
No voyage here is done again.

When we pray, we pray that our voyage does not desert us;
That we do not limit our hearts;
That we trust each other above ourselves;
And that we will still wake up on that day and love:
The rock and the swig of the person lying next to us—again.

Blow wind in their hair—these travellers—
Blow wind in their hair

We are always first-time travellers,
And our boat is as yet unnamed.

First published in PN Review

(UK)