The Fisherman’s Bride
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
August herrings jostled like corn,
September sunset slitting the day’s throat.
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.