by Pavel Chichikov
Fisherman, come here
Haul up your net and show me what you've caught
Slide the dripping cables on the wet sand
Now pull apart the web, the mesh, the toils
And tell me what there is to see
What fish, what haul, what catch may be
There squirms a crab, eight legs too many
Slice it open, slice it – there's a penny
For which you spent in gall one half your soul
There's another fish, dead love
A gold and green dorado pronged with treachery
And lust – see how the pure gills bleed
Another and another – indifferent
The way you spill them on the beach
The salmon sun, the lithe and bonny trout
For you these spawn are lucre you exploit
Not creatures of the crescent month
Which has no price yet is so precious
Here the twitching small fry – jealousy,
A sprat, impatience – filthy skate
That crawls and hordes the leavings from the scourings
Ugliest of all, the stickle perch
Ungraceful, with a dorsal fin of knives
No meat but all revenge
Mistrust, unfaith, the green pike swims alone
But you have gaffed him up –
He bites you, serpent on the heel
Leave that stinking mess, it is no use
Not even for the drachma wedged inside the long bladder
Let the dogs eat flesh and bone
Fisherman, I give you other work to do
Take off your shoes
And I will give you stones to walk on
Bread for the stones, fish for the pauper
Miracles for bread
Martyrdom for love
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.