You've cut out my tongue,
my Argonaut.

Silenced by your absence,
I'm set adrift in the doldrums
that stretch between the text
you permit, like holes in fabric,
worried at, un-mended.

So you take leave on another
journey, the far-flung four corners
calling to your wander-lust,
you need to be a hero,
your honour.

My tongue pinned to your prow,
pink-grey, tentacular, stitching
its stories in papyrus sails,
spitting its tales to the rigging.

I stand on the strand and watch
from the mainland the hull of your bark
slice the waves,
scissors through canvas.

Blood fills my mouth like ink.
I turn away to look for our sons.