Poetic Rowing

To the oars, my brothers— like muskets and dueling pistols, like the last dry powder before the charge.

Listen— the cocking of oars at the catch, like a firing squad at dawn.

The water demands tribute, and we’ve memorized the manual of suffering: Catch. Drive. Recover. Reload.

To the oars, condemned men. The charge is damp. The bayonet's dull. Victory’s a hangman’s wink. Row like you mean to strangle the current.

The water is here. Waiting. Like it always does. And we’re resolved.

—anonymous rower One of us