The Oars

The weight of the oars
and my pace
yielded a perfect pain.

Behind my neck,
across my back, and straight
through to my chest.

It was clean
and honest, then slow.

My eyelids reached down, heavy,
and longed to rest upon the waves.

The sway of the boat
and the sound of the little licks
beneath and beside me,

I did not want them to go.

The oars slipped from my hands
and I slipped somewhere too,
slowly, and then
not so much.

Until it became
a story, one they'd tell later.