Cod

We're off the headlands of a fable
where there are enough fish
to walk on, sea kicking whitecaps
around us but our feet dryshod,
our faces so pure we look oiled
by the horizon: Tropic of Cancer,
mer du nord, little fools glimmering
like shoes of light. Between
the cod's eyes is a flesh more flavorful
than its body, but we have no hunger.
We'll never have hunger again
because of this path we walk, each step
strangely warm through the leather
and steam of the krill-grounds.
There are whales deep below, blues
we'll never catch, and beneath
them there are cockles safe forever,
creatures that will never be served
with port wine poured over blankets,
nourishment that would go straight
to the center of our bones if
we weren't walking on this water,
if during the storm our sails held
from point to keel. And how satisfied
we'd be if we weren't dreaming
of wind behind us, weren't walking
on froth, this path of codfish
leading us out toward the deep.

Copyright © 2005 David Roderick All rights reserved
from 32 Poems
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission