ship of Theseus

by Ross Creason

This body is a vessel – 

               eroding, rolling, roaming             

borne on the sea, with brittle sails; 

the hull’s been strengthened, 

frayed out rigging swapped for 

sturdier lines. 

Sails patched, broader. 

New technology and navigation – 

               lessons learned laboring 

If the truth of me is in my veins, 

in my bones, my skin, my eyes, 

if my truth is in my body it’s gone now. 

Every seven years, 

every cell is exchanged, 

               dividing, duty-bound, decaying 

but there’s something that remains, 

the paradox of identity. 

After the close, after the lights 

               exit stage right, sans everything 

echoes in the waves, eternal 

as the ship of legend. 

               Tempest-toss’d, traveling. 

The story is the essence, and the truth 

of me is in the telling. 

Ross Creason is from the swamps of Northern VA where he is working towards an English degree. His work has been published in unstamatic, and he might be several possums, in a clever disguise.