Wet rope, knots drawn tight.
Tangled. Salt crusted. Sun dried.
A net, half buried.
A boy sits, knees crossed
On dry sand. Waves break nearby.
Foam blows in the wind.
This net. A rare prize.
Little of value washes
Up on this bleak shore.
The boy works the knots,
Chews the rope, pulls with his teeth.
Tastes the salt. The sand.
One by one the knots
Slip free. He smiles now, dreaming.
Fried fish. Full bellies.
His father was gone,
Drowned last spring. Swallowed by the
Dark, pitiless sea.
And fever laid
His mother low. Five days now she
Burned. Tossing. Moaning.
This net. Washed up. Lost.
God had not forgotten them.
Tonight they would eat.
