The Fisherman’s Bride

(after GMB)

January. I hung a brass chain

at my belly. He tugged it, spilt salt-water.

February. He rowed me with tranced oars

through star-dotted waves.

March. He birthed me

with his tongue, silver gouts of herring.

April. Drunk, hollow-eyed, we

took our skulls at dawn to a sweet green gap.

May. I stole his shadow- self

from a luminous sea-pod.

June. Bathed his wounds in whisky,

then licked them.

In July I stopped mermaid babble

with sea-poison!

August herrings jostled like corn,

uncaught silver.

September sunset slitting the day’s throat.

We saw!

October. Harvesting his come

in my mouth and cunt.

November. A lit fire, spit of rain.

Flensed his lip skin with my nail.

December. He carried me to the tide again,

bore my weight. All night, one cold star stared.