Tinctures, Kii-Katsuura

a poem

When the night falls, fishermen 
close up Nigiwai-Ichiba. This town 
commits a lifetime to one craft:
from the stern of the boat, they
cast every net with their whole bodies
against the waves. Every filet of 
maguro o-toro is cut to the grain.
At a karaoke near the port, they
down shots of gin and chasers of 
women’s laughs and kanpai to songs about
youth. May the hopeless romantics stay 
forever hopeless. After the chorus, the air 
is suddenly quiet. I shake their calloused
hands. Goodbye. Remember there are 
no strangers in this world so long as we
sing together. Tomorrow looks much 
the same, except for one tiny thing. A
kind of new that takes root slowly.
The night breeze brushes over 
the harbor, where small boats loll against 
the shore, where love and longing will 
depart in the morning and meander 
everywhere. Storms make us 
leather-tough. But the sand is fine, 
the moon kind, and the water forever 
holding up; so our hearts stay that way, 
night after night, and dream about love. 
The end of the world will come
tenderly, like memories untangling –– 
something that once felt like knowing. A
past life. An illusion of more. An atom
drifts above clouds, mistaking it for
gravity.

April 2024