Fish Wife
More Grimsby stuff. Not sure why Grimsby is holding a sudden fascination, but you go where the inspiration is, I guess.
FISH WIFE
He climbs from the deck
past reeking holds,
the choke of ammonia
and week old sweat
making him gack.
I see the skin on his palms
and fingers – torn and raw.
Capillaries broken,
in his fleshy cod cheeks,
from sub-arctic cold
and an over abundance
of rum.
He sees the note in hasty,
thready ink that condemns
the town and two
thousand boats.
He shudders,
shoulders jumping,
and I know he wishes
he’d listened at school.
Recent Comments
 | erroneouschoices on Brittle (for Greg) |
 | hana on Succotash |
 | Will on Nairn |
 | Joyce Kopp on Nairn |
| Vikingr | Will Vigar on Lullaby |
Recent Comments