1
The Greek fisherman rises early.
Hands like five-legged spiders repair
thick nets each day’s catch depends on.
He polishes St. Peter’s icon,
sets off for deep water. Ritual
frames each day with purpose.
2
Living off a fickle sea, trafficking
in Homer’s “terrible Aegean,” placid
turquoise mirror, or cauldron of unexpected
squalls, rocks cutting surface like bones
breaking flesh, jaws ripping into anything
wave-tongues force toward them.
3
Horizon is the house he breathes in.
Inversion of the sky and sea startles:
a darkened ceiling as the floor pales,
grays until a line is crossed;
horizon that deceives, tosses perspective
until the boat itself tips, shreds
into a mass of floating bones.
4
The sea gulps hard, spits out
the fisherman, drowning him in thirst
that won’t be quenched, salt not
tears of sympathy nor liquor
of a vindictive god. Panic
reveals scenes as if he floats
above, detached. Clinging to a plank,
strange thoughts of Jonah, fish
who owe him nothing.
5
The mocking saline reservoir
of what the body lost and needs
gives buoyancy to spirit
as flesh sinks deeper.
To keep eyes awake, aware,
while sense slumbers
a horizon that feels familiar
only to find it rising like a scythe:
dark triangles, silence …
6
A powerful thrust of velvet flesh
as eyes open on a horizon
of soapstone shoals and driftwood limbs.
Triangles imagined sharp, threatening,
curve in the light, dorsal flags
of porpoise, flotilla of aquatic messengers.
Legend proves true: porpoise lifeguards
in a frantic, flowing world
who guide you back to shore, firmer
once so close to being lost.
Photo by Anastasia Dimitriadi on Unsplash
