Chelsea Dingman
Prayer for Landfall and Light
At sea: strung like black rosary
beads, cities on a paper map stretch
west under my fingers. Different colours
mark new territory like changing
skies. As the ship crawls
against sea squalls, their names cluster
like lashes on my tongue. I pull them
out, tiny wings. Like strands
of spider’s silk. A feather. One lash
for Vancouver. For Saskatoon. For
Victoria. I can’t consider staying
east when the price I’ve paid
is for an acre of prairie, of river
valley. The edges of the Pacific. Click,
pause, click. This prayer, low
bellow of steam as it meets sky. Nothing
beyond the dark but water. But crippling
hope, strung in black porcelain, a cross
my mother wore everyday
as we buried the sun.