I will.
This is for Ish and anyone that appreciates a little guidance.
Ritual on Indian Pier
The pier was empty,
full of wooden groans,
the seas high,
the onshore drizzle
blowing horizontally.
I met a guy out here
thin and old,
hollow in the temples,
a hook scar on his cheek,
his ghostly face smiling
under a shaky lamp.
All night we fished,
outlasted everyone
through a long lull
that broke before dawn
with a school of blues.
Talk didn't matter
but when it came
his accent was shack poor
and hard to read.
That morning
at the cleaning table,
he noticed my hands
had never learned
to use a knife.
So he taught by gesture,
as if ashamed to speak,
spat on the white whetstone
and made small circles with the blade,
angling the steel,
honing an edge without feathers.
His black hand
would stop mine, guide it
in behind the gills to find the bone.
Toothless, he'd laugh,
then I'd watch his hand,
as if by magic,
in one motion, flip the fillet
and peel off the skin.
"Sharp knife do it all," he grinned,
holding the skeletal comb
to the x-ray light,
our ritual finished by gulls.
Tonight,
on the stone he made me take
in exchange for a few beers, I find
the right angle,
make those same small circles.
His whole face smiled.
"Don't you worry ," he said,
"time ain't nothin',"
and guided me through
every last blue,
laughing, covering his mouth,
then pursing his lips
as if kissing himself
or somebody else good-bye.
Years ago.
He must be dead by now.
As I cut these blues,
find the bone and work the knife,
his white whetstone
stands on the rail
against the dark,
like a marker finally set.
~Peter Makuck
from New London,CT and
chapbook "Shorelines |
