The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
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planning our route
thieved maps and charts
marked the dangerous spaces
with black scribbles
harsh on the yellowed parchment
of skin and memory
where the edges grew
unclear we wrote
here there be unicorns
because when your ship is love
you have hope
for more than monsters
we packed our bags
full of optimism
and enough time together
to get us through hunger spells
a seasoned sailor
and her eager apprentice
we had a route to riches
in theory
but setting sail
revealed how unprepared we were
the storms battered our haul
the salt of my tears
stung your open wounds
and in the fuzzy parts of our maps
we found monsters
in ourselves