perhappened mag
issue 13: SALTWATER
life on the ship
of your saviour
RHIANNON WILLSON
CW: relationship abuse
See, you were supposed to be
the one who saved me.
And you were, I suppose.
I was drowning and you were
the one to grab my waving hand
and yank me aboard, dislocating
my shoulder in the process.
I cried with relief.
My lungs had been filling
with salt water but now
here you were, saviour,
plucking me out of all that
churning madness and giving me
warm clothes, a bed to rest in,
your arms to comfort me.
I looked towards dry land
and dreamed of it, sighed
with the relief of it, all the safety
promised by the port.
As it turns out,
we weren’t heading for land.
You were on a voyage
and that wasn’t to be disrupted
for the sake of one lost girl.
You had already done me the favour
of saving my life.
Instead I was put to work,
up at the crack of dawn
and not in bed until long after dusk.
I don’t mean to make it sound
all bad. The life of a sailor
is one full of marvels.
The way the sun rises and sets
over the sea, the soaring birds,
that vast, endless expanse of ocean.
All the glory of those
monstrous waves.
I’m not saying I didn’t love it,
all those days on the sea,
I’m just saying that when
you once almost drowned
you gain a dislike for salt water.
People talk about the freedom
of it, the ocean, but you are not free
when you are in its cold grip
and you are hardly more free
on the safety of a boat
with nowhere to go.
I’m not saying I’m not grateful.
You saved me. But once I woke
in the middle of the night
to find you pouring salt water
into my open mouth.
the one who saved me.
And you were, I suppose.
I was drowning and you were
the one to grab my waving hand
and yank me aboard, dislocating
my shoulder in the process.
I cried with relief.
My lungs had been filling
with salt water but now
here you were, saviour,
plucking me out of all that
churning madness and giving me
warm clothes, a bed to rest in,
your arms to comfort me.
I looked towards dry land
and dreamed of it, sighed
with the relief of it, all the safety
promised by the port.
As it turns out,
we weren’t heading for land.
You were on a voyage
and that wasn’t to be disrupted
for the sake of one lost girl.
You had already done me the favour
of saving my life.
Instead I was put to work,
up at the crack of dawn
and not in bed until long after dusk.
I don’t mean to make it sound
all bad. The life of a sailor
is one full of marvels.
The way the sun rises and sets
over the sea, the soaring birds,
that vast, endless expanse of ocean.
All the glory of those
monstrous waves.
I’m not saying I didn’t love it,
all those days on the sea,
I’m just saying that when
you once almost drowned
you gain a dislike for salt water.
People talk about the freedom
of it, the ocean, but you are not free
when you are in its cold grip
and you are hardly more free
on the safety of a boat
with nowhere to go.
I’m not saying I’m not grateful.
You saved me. But once I woke
in the middle of the night
to find you pouring salt water
into my open mouth.
Rhiannon Willson is a queer poet who spends her spare time playing Scrabble with old ladies and trying to learn how to rollerskate. She can be found on Twitter @rhiannonwillson or through her website, rhiannonwillson.co.uk.