The Shrimper’s New Wife
~This
poem previously appeared in Poet Lore
(2002).
For months I’d go to the docks after
work
to see the shrimp boats come in at
low tide,
their outriggers balancing and
diesel engines humming.
On the Southern Sylkie there was one
particular man, a striker.
He was redheaded and red-chested.
I’d watch him hold the door ropes
taut,
the sugarline still out. One day I
felt my legs stiffen.
Something in my heart, too long
underwater,
began to soften.
I watched the solid curve of his
shoulders
as he loosened the bag knots and
spooled
in the nets. Flecks of fin and scale
refracted light onto his face.
He sifted the catch, then shoveled
back the rest. The gulls, pelicans,
and terns
spun in their ravenous dance.
Now each day he comes home at dusk,
tosses gear and deck boots on the
floor.
I open my dress to his rough hands.
He pulls me toward him, to the wave
he carries within his body,
through that other ocean and toward
that other dock—
the one I’ve been missing.
*****
