— Nick Butterfield
Came here inside a cargo boat.
Her head once lay against a bulkhead for a pillow.
I couldn’t find her gravestone,
I couldn’t find her trail
That led here, where her dreams
live in pillows made of freedom.
A seed of hers, I dreamt I became a fish
then took the bait.
The barbed hook and taste of freedom
now embedded inside my cheek.
This the trail that led me back from where I came,
still won’t let me go.