Hurting Home

This was before limes and lemons,
When the sea water
Left us parched if the fresh water bucket ran dry.

Those that coped with this
Buckled under the weight
Of a want that could not be fed or watered.
It left us wracked
With the pain of a first kiss
Under a hay cart in June.

All of us, even those who had never left the city,
Shut our eyes and saw
Dew heavy on one blade of green, green
Grass. Our bodies tense all night
As we tried to make the nebulous reflection of
Loved lost, sharp.

It became a cramp that bent us double and
Pushed our scorched stubble chins
Into the poop deck. We were like mops
Stiff, twisted into yesterday's toil.
We were burnt offerings.
We were crisp lackeys wanting.

Our dreams were
An ocean cut through,
Thrown into foam
By the merciless
Forward progression of our ship:
Our temporary hurting home.