Squall Lines
The oil spill insinuates itself
into everything, even
my mother’s hospital room,
when the nurse, watching the news
as she hangs another bag of saline
to float the antibiotics, says:
My husband’s a crabber.
He’s gonna have to find himself
another job.
She’s young & I wonder if
she understands.
It’s not just some job
he could up and quit,
no more than she could
trade motherhood
for a stripper’s pole.
He stands as few still do
in the long progression
of his daddy’s trade.
His ancestors sat &
mended their nets
as the first missionary
told them stories
of a briny Dead Sea
worked by God’s own son.
He has studied
with the fervor of a preacher,
the psalms & gospels of the water,
the concordance of wind & waves
the way it all fits together, until
he can plunge fearlessly
into the wet mystery of it
& snatch back baskets full
of monstrous & succulent crabs.
Will his skin taste the same to her
when it’s lost that extra tang of salt
& his eyes are distant clouds
on the horizon?
Will she be able to read
the squall assembling
in that vacant air?
– Mark Folse
