Content Warning: violence, death

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As they bedded down you told the pigs

these are his clothes, if he returns.

You wanted him dead, drowned, pulled under by a whirlpool

but the look out raised the shout that morning,

the boat hugged the coast in heavy seas, all day

until it slipped into the bay.

Then the women began to count heads.

He knelt to greet the dogs that had howled for weeks

you were not, to him, what a dog can be.

Your half of the bed became infected

his back bitten and rough as barnacles, you'd seen his stare

in the rolling eye of whales, crimson in the shallows as the women began to cut,

you inspected his ruined nails, put up with his filth,

as ice floes scraped through your room,

he clubbed seals and chopped wood with the same melancholy arc,

his glass surface, deep as the place currents meet.

It became dark, he said, as if a great hand pushed down

upon the vast surface of the ocean and the fishing grounds

gave no less, no more and the soil so poor.

You found a linen pouch, some shells, seeds

and a slim silver ring, to show he came aground, at least

he won't say how the five men died, oh

but his little devotions, still, how he stroked your feet

and tied his braids, whistling, with the swell pulling at the ropes, then

stepped onto the boat without a glance at the daughter

he did not name.

You repair a basket with three quick knots

pile his possessions on the pyre, slit the best dog's throat,

steal your way inland, for the absence of open water,

peel his grip, bury the ring, nail the pelt to the tree

and pray for storms.