After-Work Pendant
All young Catholic boys get one. Around the neck, security hung there, its recurring dream the travel of labor, the labor of gating all these pink sockeye. Nestled into the undulating blue-hue of the Kenai somewhere was the copper charm my mother gave after confirmation—the first and only time I’d dive after a saint. Finally an adult. John the Baptist, my decision. Bring her the head of that man. Put his thoughts on a silver platter.
And we fished for months. I cleaned the deck and read and skinned and read and stabbed and harpooned and read and filleted until any sign of a moon would tack itself up. Start at the dorsal fin; don’t forget any bones for the bucket. Goliaths, for all we know, lapping and dealing with their lack of feet. Alaska, in the summer, rare sunsets wound through. Once when it rained—Christopher—again, caught on the grate, learned to swim once and for all. Secure yourself for every room, patron.
That next week, fresh in from Kodiak, Seward’s local outfitter. Bought the first golden Buddha under ten bucks. Kept it in my shirt pocket until September climaxed and I’d made enough money to head back home. Every belly has a cavity, I was told, and every cleft a cause, the reprieve of revolution drowned in salted pause.
St. Christopher’s Drowning
Rest has a health on your effects, all this drinking sure makes whose laughter? How many late nights will continue to draw up these flexaret decisions? Purses, little contagions. Each time I drop a penny, an epidemic of grandmothers chatter-chants that old swing tune of heart-shaped mouth harps, like a bridge club of bees circling high above the spot where two sunken ships sleep.
Rest your health. I’m going mad again; I’ve been full of reason for years. I’d drive a bus or pick tomatoes if I’d not have to worry about September falling over the horizon chortling loud and carrying a melon over its head.
