No-one learns to sail without first lifting the anchor

I know, you want to turn away,

For me to teach you how

To make walls so thick that pain accumulates

Like leaves, decomposing in the external shadow.

But detritus banks, in time,

Compost feeds,

And no wall cannot be breached and still let in the peddlers,

To trade in fruits and grain and trinkets to bring delight.

I know you want to numb the wound,

For me to offer a salve,

That could turn an arm to deadweight,

Force your tongue to lie limp in your mouth.

But how would you speak?

How would you hold another’s hand?

How would you labour to sow, to tend, to harvest?

How would you sing?

I have no salve, no block, no trick

To smooth the sea to glassy calm,

No spell to dissipate cumulonimbus,

Which gather to darken your path.

But you are practiced in building boats

And despite the queasy rolling,

Some seas can be sailed without sight of stars,

If you keep true to your compass.

I know there is an easy way,

Where numb hands pile jagged stones

To form a makeshift harbour wall,

So you can huddle bleeding and alone,

Uselessly braced for each drenching high wave,

Self captivated by the cycle

Of shoddy repairs and scar tissue,

Ruptured by repetition of the wound.

I know you are afraid

That your back is too weak for the wind,

That you will take on water you cannot bail,

That you must go alone.

But you cannot learn to sail without first lifting the anchor.

Trust your back, know it can bend without breaking.

Trust your boat, know that it can dip without sinking.

Trust the bearing of your compass.

I know there is another way,

Where hands grow strong on salty lines,

And the tongue learns to sing pain and pleasure without shame,

And people on harbours built by villages, together,

Will hear you call

And reach to catch the rope you throw ashore,

And you will gain your sea-legs, and stand upon your prow,

And find you know yourself to be courageous.