I am sorry.
I am not a proper vessel,
I sometimes allow the swells to toss me
to
fro
just to give my barnacles breath.
I’m sorry
but I won't turn
when you twist your engines into me.
I am sorry
that the smoke you planted,
hot & coalful in my belly
is now a rising stink
emptied of results intended.
I am sorry
but your cargo doesn’t fit
& we are taking a detour,
so I can deepen my bonds with whales
& sirens.
I am sorry
but I will not tell them to soften their voices.
The uncontrol you think you are feeling,
from magics sang into your skin,
that sound is only a clasp unhinging
a release from permission.
You've stopped counting
your hostilities, forgot
you could count at all.
Some might say its your own fault
that your ears were just
unprepared
for moonsong;
that the voices are inherently
dangerous to your engines
but not me.
I know how truly innocent you are;
how the shift from silence to siren can feel so sudden & small;
how the smothering feels
as natural as breath.
I feel your fear.
& I am sorry
that the whales will devour you
& your raw untightened eardrums.
I am sorry I put the force
of you in danger
but this is what you face
when you board me
with your brawn
all hung out and blazing.
