Finishing the islands,
God said it was good.
Finishing the rocky shoals
and teeming tidepools,
mussels hesitantly prying themselves
wide, and barnacles flying
freely, and crabs stealing,
and for every bit of this,
God said it was good.
So I wrap a line on driftwood,
tie a hook and cast it –
past the tidepools,
past the teeth of a lurking rock cod,
(ocean-alming eyes and
gnarled flank adorning,
For whom – God said it was good)
and God will make the rock cod bite
and fill my island so
full of fish that we will risk it
sinking, have to bail, have to
throw them off the other shore –
for God said it was good.