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To: Ilaine who wrote (159)	2/20/2001 8:49:30 PM
From: Volsi Mimir	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 6901

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