Fisherman of Men

My people were always seafaring people
trained to instinctively work long hours
and sleep short.
Good sea legs,
broad shoulders,
cast iron stomachs.
Imaginative enough to be happy
playing with clouds
and tricks of sunlight
on a fickle sea
for weeks at a time.

All knew we were thought of
as a simple people,
bawdy of humor,
determined to survive,
but ready to die
should the wrong storm blow in.

Aside from the thin skin,
overly sensitive to sea salt and sun,
we were perfectly suited to
the life of fishermen.

What I liked best, of course,
better than catching
the fish that made our livelihood,
was when I could rescue the odd soul
stranded at sea.

I admit, I was proud.
Proud of my expert knots and
thick, long ropes.
The boys would say,
"Strong enough to hang yourself!"
I was proud of my solid arms
that could reel in any fish
or man.
Proud to be a fisherman.

One bright afternoon
I caught you,
jewel of the sea,
sunlight in your eyes.
You stayed aboard for years.
We figured you'd found your home,
never expecting you to stay,
but always glad to keep you.
You gave our lives meaning,
fed our hunger,
softened us with your beauty.

5 years.

One night all slept
while you walked the plank.

I threw you a rope.
But you let go.

Jewel of the sea,
I'm still pulling in that rope,
but there's no one on the other side.
I'm not well suited.
My skin is thin.
I'm not humbled by my loss.
I'm a fisherman and know not
what else to do.

Weeks later, a storm nearly took us out.
But the vessel remained afloat.
It had nothing to do with us.
We cowered.

There's nothing left at the end of this rope
but forgiveness.

I cast my line again.