Wreckage

Another aching winter morning
when any gray wave might
wash up what is left–

gnarled ship timber, or steel drum
stenciled in language
no one here can translate.

Huddle close as the sea dredges up
scale, claw, cracked
mirror frame, any broken treasure

once bound for Boston, Halifax.
On rusted docks
ghosts wait, grumble

for secrets never delivered
as the weather flails
churning more chaotic

debris once longed for and precious.
Rings, bracelets, and combs,
wrenches, hammers, and nails

dappled across the beach. Always
surprising what the sea might gift.

In the village where nets tangle
on the dock, Rachel Day
keeps a scrimshawed box near

her leather diary, not one page dated
for years. Christine Deschenes
rubs a bo’sun whistle

left on her bedside table so long ago
she can’t count up the days.
Simon Aparicio bathes

every Friday night in his copper tub
to wash away the stench—
fish, no longer caught.

No sun today. None tomorrow.

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