Cod

David Roderick

 
We’re off the headlands of a fable
where there are enough fish
to walk on, sea kicking whitecaps
around us but our feet dryshod,
our faces so pure we look oiled
by the horizon: Tropic of Cancer,
mer du nord, little fools glimmering 
like shoes of light.  Between
the cod’s eyes is a flesh more flavorful 
than its body, but we have no hunger.
We’ll never have hunger again
because of this path we walk, each step 
strangely warm through the leather
and steam of the krill-grounds.  
There are whales deep below, blues 
we’ll never catch, and beneath 
them there are cockles safe forever, 
creatures that will never be served 
with port wine poured over blankets, 
nourishment that would go straight 
to the center of our bones if 
we weren’t walking on this water, 
if during the storm our sails held 
from point to keel.  And how satisfied 
we’d be if we weren’t dreaming 
of wind behind us, weren’t walking 
on froth, this path of codfish 
leading us out toward the deep.

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