* Why must you leave. Why must you constantly go.

Why is the sail masted to your soul. A warm breeze rolls over Nyanpue’s naked shoulders – dark clouds rolling thick over Montserrado. And Garyupleh fears the day their firstborn will come – the child coming in his absence.

Then what would be done if others charged in from other villages or lands – flared nostrils – eyes burning in the shade of cotton trees – riders galloping and spitting fire and cutting men down over beach sand –

dismounting and seizing girls and women and holding boys back to witness blood fall anew – just as he’d been sewn among his own.

And holding his wife he says nothing and stares into the thatched dark and thinks of all the journeys he’s taken that brought him back to his own shores. Journeys that have come with every curse and blessing of sun and rain.

Journeys of men and states and rites of passage.

And when he feels Nyanpue’s breath fold into its own course of gentle sleep –

he closes his eyes and sees the sky washing off the decks of ships he knows will never sail clean.

*

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