Fish and Friend

Gallagher came down my steps on a darkening August evening,

in need of hot whiskey, lemon, sugar and cloves. A jaunty sailor’s cap

on his bald head, long nailed toes in sandals, warm embrace.

He carried a faded Quinn’s supermarket bag that bulged with two

blue lobsters, fresh from lobster pot and seaweed curtained

hollows under rocks, angry claws clamped by red rubber bands.

Moving antennae interrogated my smiling, greedy face.

Brave and warmed by whiskey, I dropped the biggest into

a cauldron of  boiling water, poked raised claws with spoons

and looked away, saw his expression. He knew I couldn’t

watch those questioning antennae turn from blue black to red,

that I was glad lobsters have no voice that any human ear can hear.

We drank more whiskey. He went home to hungry dog and fire.

Left me with memories of a wild river salmon he once brought,

a small child’s size and weight, wrapped in newspaper,

silver scales and dead eyes. He slit the silver belly,

left liver and guts in the sink, scrapped away silver scales.

My fish kettle fitted the salmon as close as any human coffin.

My mother died one spring. That first Christmas Eve, he brought

shrimps from pots he’d pulled in Curragh cove, translucent brown

bodies twitched under seaweed blankets. We sat close to the fire,

curtains drawn against wind, rain and ghosts. Peeled pink, boiled

shrimps, threw shells into the fire, drank tea and whiskey.

Butter melted over our fingers as we swallowed shrimps on bread.