by Atlas Moss
if you replace every part of a ship,
is it the same ship?
my mother’s hand on my cheek
is warm like the sun as she
tells me it’s like her daughter
has died. the sun glares down
at blue water and back up
at me. i am beginning to understand
i am less boat to her, more driftwood
going where i’m carried
eventually lost and previously beautiful
if you replace every part of a ship,
have you just built a ship?
on the day i was born, i’m sure
many ships took to sea. as they did
whatever it is ships do, i was
being told to watch the ships
from the shore. my mother hated
when the waves stained my hull and
hated when i replaced it. maybe god is
disappointed, i think i remember
him caring a lot about boats
if you replace every part of a ship,
is the ocean the same?
we sit on the dock and she wants me to
share in her grief but my daughter
didn’t die and hers was just a boat
she mourns, i start hormones.
it feels sudden to her. she wants me
to wait “until the body is cold” but
my body is hot, and
like everything alive,
it cannot help but change.
if you replace every part of a ship
who forgives it?
Atlas Moss is a printmaker, poet, and conservationist based in Atlanta, GA. Their “dayjob” involves developing native green spaces in community areas, and a great deal of their art and writing is informed by the natural landscapes they work in. Their work relies on nature imagery, queerness, and attempts at comedic relief, resulting in soft landscapes, haphazard textures, and confident guesswork.
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