Member-only story
The Pots
A memory poem
The wire pots wait
before the dawn,
tools for the work ahead,
they put other foods
on our table because
we rarely eat what we catch.
Crabs, an expensive delight,
in cities to the north and south —
here, they’re common like
hamburgers or pizza
somewhere that has places
to cook and serve.
Pieces of fish bait not washed away
attract night creatures,
a possum or raccoon
trapped and desperate —
my father cuts the wire
to give freedom —
another pot to repair tonight.
Loaded, the blue and white boat
named Ginny for the mother I never knew
skims through the still-cool water
as the sun peaks above the bay waters
glistening in a low fog,
the heat will arrive soon.
One after another, traps with
our orange, blue, and white markers
found and hauled aboard,
crabs dumped, small…
