The Lobster Pound Keeper Ponders the Afterlife

I prefer a harbour in place of a gate, to be sure,
haul me in with another day’s catch here

 

at St. Peter’s low wake. They reek of bled fish,
and the shacks, they’ve lost their stakes,

 

but old wharves, they’re just as you
find them. And however I come ashore is fine

 

enough here: the ocean was furrowed by
the trawler’s great take, and wherever

 

its passages tried to escape they were lifted
right up, resurrected, you might say,

 

yanked along like a bad lover’s necklace.
So, yes. There isn’t anyone, anything

 

left to tie me. But then I try not to nod off
too worrisome: there’s still a few

 

skippers with teeth, one or two keep a hid
dory down East—say that Kharon,

 

boy, he’s a good cod fisherman.
So never mind the gates and the miracle

 

of loaves, I’ll leave those to the farmers
and businessmen. All I ever wanted

 

was to break a few waves with
The Susie Kate, a kettle on the stove

 

and fish from the Strait, and
sure, to stow enough supper for everyone.