John a-Baptist
An old man by the time you were twenty
five, lung of ash, stomach of ulcer,
you’ve picked and dug and hauled
your way into the deepest depths of the bay,
pulling back the sand-sods to crucify
the rage or pain in a way that takes
on water the way penitents would under
the hands of John. You slosh with boots,
and the thumbhold of the brim of your hat is
muddy No different, in this moment, than a man
ankle to knee to hip come to have a Baptist
pour water into your hollow cheeks
to take you under that water the way
all the men who taught you how to
thrust the clam hoe went under, until a bushel
take in trap slack until a bushel
drag slack until it's in a winch, not warp
groan or scream
piss over the side of the boat into wake
foam
anything this place could thrust up
or you could dig out was up for grabs
shit thin and toothless grin you said
and laughed because next you braced
yourself against the car door and looked
at the new memorial in the fog and said
what it was like for you to see seven names
on the rough rock, all lost within
a month, seven family members you said
again, yup, all within a month--
one fully recovered after floating from bay
to bay face down (the snag in the gear you said
came after the snag in his heart). And so.
Floating, cold dead, over the stones
and through old coves, miles from where
the whole shebang went under forever,
and a long time later, the crew came up
in pieces. But you liked that your step-
father still had that smoke in his pocket
you like that he was all intact
when his friend pulled him over the gunwale.
Now you’re waiting for low tide, drinking a coffee,
facing the sun. You say the price of clams has gone
down. But it’s still good. It’s still good. You say I’ll stick close
to shore today. This shit fog I aint going out too far. Nope.
Not today. Not too far. Woke up to a sunrise. Did you
see it? Sure was pretty.
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