Sean Michael St. Charles
alive it must be God’s pocket a fisherman
once said. I don’t doubt his sense of apocalypse.
The wind sang through the cracks of his small fishing
boat a song like water is waiting heavily for you.
There are things the fisherman knew for certain:
which bait is best for Lingcod at night versus
the morning, or what shade of blue green
the flesh ought to look after the cleaning
of the fish, before the eating. There were
other things the fisherman could assume:
the depth of the bay and its proximity—
at least a shirt’s length from heaven.
The bay was empty when he reached it,
a perfect square of linen on God’s chest,
meant to keep whatever speck of sand inside
safe. I’m not sure it is that way. With pockets
there’s a penchant for forgetfulness and
who’s to say God didn’t want to lose
the fisherman with the rest of us.