"Shark Meat."
In the night fouled the nets, soloyamas flying fish fishing.
Speared by the giant trident that hung in the net
shed we never thought used.
Cut up for meat on the beach.
At 7:00 in the morning Maeda's grandson,
the shy one with a slight hair lip
brought a crescent of pale red flesh
two feet long looped on his arm, up the bamboo lanes
to our place.
The island eats shark meat at noon.
Sweet miso sauce on a big boiled cube as I
lift a flake to my lips.
Miles of water, black current, thousands
of days recrossing his own paths to tangle or net
to be part of this loom.