Poem of the Week

She caught babies in winter,

laid fish to dry in summer,

was eager to sop blood, guts

of anything pierced that needed

her. When the first baby came,

she fished him into her arms,

wiping his face with her thumb,

so enraptured by the sudden touch

of blood that she didn’t see

the twin who slithered out

as if on pelvic fin, hidden

by afterbirth, cradled in placenta

into the Old Port salt beef bucket,

destined for the greedy harbour

to be released, returning

to something wet, smelling of home.

The bucket started howling on the walk

to the water, cold night wind

waking small lungs. The father

looked down. As he rubbed

his baby’s eyes, sound broke from him, too

like a blow in the nautical chorus.