My Fisherman Dad
My dad is a fisherman
“Not the normal one,” mum will say
His eyes were blue like the waters of the seas
When I was born, mother said his eyes were still black
Dad tells of his seas
Of dark alleys under clear skies
Of calling waves on dark nights
He says he has seen it all
Humans with fish tails that sneak
on deck to steal sailors’ harpoons
He says he has heard it all
Calling laughter that cries through the night.
His best friend answered
once, and was seen no more.
Ghastly songs through the speakers
like demons shuffling feet were chorusing the sailors’ songs.
Like torture to bleeding ears
He says he had touched it all
Primates with gills that oozed softly
Like ear wax.
Oversized beavers that burst their strongest nets.
And old chains to bind deckhands who go berserk
When Dad tells stories,
his blue eyes turn dark and
my arms grow bumps in admiration
But he ends every story with
“Don’t go out there, son. The beauty of the seas
lies in its darkness.”