The smell of rotting fish came first,
centuries of smells hauled from the sea.

Then came the great vessels, the fishing boats,
after a hard day hauling oysters from the reefs,
they swayed in the dank wind, sad gulls
swooped past and called the fishermen
alien names; Juan, Pablo and Miguel, names not
foreign to their waiting wives – hard working women
fashioned in colorful skirts blowing tight against their legs,
their thick raven curls playing in the hard wind,
wearing cotton coats too thin to keep out the cold.

They smiled soulful joy at one another, towing
children too young for school, wondering if three dollars
for each burlap bag, bulging with oysters, was enough to feed the kids,
pay rent, buy a christening dress – as new babies were coming to some.
Time locks them in textures of Sisyphus survival and
curses, cheers and raw cheeks and tears twine
with salty, acrid autumn chores as the men
continue to cull, clean decks and the children,
wanting to play with gulls, pull impatiently on protecting hands.

I did not speak to them, I was too lazy to learn
their language in school, now I want to know all about them.
The skies turn dark, waves toss A-framed boats
against the barnacled pier, signaling a storm, I
watch the heavens close around us, work becomes
urgent for everyone but me.

October 2012