Burning the Boat

I dragged her up above the tide line,
keel grating over stone,
the weight of her answering in my shoulders.
The rope burned my palms where it slipped.
I set a chock of driftwood under the stern
and stood a moment, breathing.

The sea lay flat behind me.
It would take her back if I let it.
I did not let it.

I worked in silence.
Dry grass twisted and pushed into the seams,
chips of pine wedged where the pitch had cracked.
I broke the last oar across my knee
and laid it along the ribs.

When I struck the spark
it caught slow at first,
a thread of smoke,
then a small tongue finding resin.

The smell came sharp and sweet.
Pitch running. Sap opening.
The boards took it, held it,
then gave it back as heat.

I stepped close once,
hand on the gunwale,
feeling it warm under my palm
as if it were still alive.

I thought of the longhouse.
Of voices carried in smoke.
Of my father’s hand
steady on the back of my neck.
That weight was gone now.

The fire climbed.
It took the seams, the mast step,
found its way along the grain.
The hull settled in on itself
with a sound like breath leaving.

I did not call on the gods.
If they were there, they saw.

The tide turned.
Water edged closer,
licking at the char,
taking what fell.

There was no boat left to push.
No plank to save.

I stood until the heat drove me back.
Ash lifted and went out over the water.

Behind me the land held.
Cold ground, unmarked.

I turned from the shore
with smoke in my clothes,
hands stung and empty,
and walked inland.