23
Fishmonger
Jason G. Santerre
This is my knife. It can split whiskers, slice
barbed wire like a blowtorch through blubber
Whaling is my life. I say it aloud, repeat it
to steady my hand at the helm as we sail the north Atlantic
in November, a frothy black bouillabaisse of rage
My men long for a glimpse of land, at least a glimmer
of some constellation shining sharp and jagged
like the business end of a broken bottle
And then we see it: 23 stars pressed against opaque glass of night:
Pegasus kicking at the waves, and blessed are we who lap
at the spray left in her wake. Sail on, sail on
Sail on, drift over the shoals of codfish — there! Just below Scorpio’s
starry tail. Our barge will bulge with enough flesh to feed a nation,
just like the days of old when Cabot walked between ships
by stepping on the backs of fish, billions and billions of scales agleam
in the moonlight, bright as Polaris