Homer Stevedore
The first poem I ever published was money
NOTE: I am currently on a trek through Auyuittuq National Park on Baffin Island in the Canadian Arctic. I prepared this post before departing.
The first writing I ever loved was poetry. When I was maybe 12 or 13, I woke up early one morning and put together some lines that thrilled me. I shook my parents awake to read my work to them. “That’s nice, honey,” my mom said blurry eyed. “Now let us get some more sleep, please.”
In 2014, during my MFA program and after encouragement from my fellow poet classmates, I sent my work to various magazines and journals. I received dozens of rejections before having one accepted by the Crab Orchard Review. Turns out it was for a special edition, “The West Coast and Beyond,” and they‘d pay me $50 for it. Hey—this poetry thing wasn’t so bad after all!
So far it’s the only poetry acceptance that’s shaken out that way.
I’m sharing it here to wake it up. Thanks for reading!
Homer Stevedore
I drive up the dirt road
after a 24-hour shift
pitching fish on Kachemak docks,
unloading angry boats
swollen with the salmon
I’ve gotten so good at sorting.
Pink, silver, king and red—
I can swipe them off the conveyor
and chuck them in metal bins
faster than guys half my age.
My Jeep floats past foggy halibut
outlined in lodgepole pines.
I smell of fish rot and skunk
from the junky old weed I smoked
with fugitives from the lower 48.
We hurl snowballs at forklifts
and at guys with clean overalls
until the echoing horn of a trawler
zaps us sober. Back to work.
We scatter and wave our hats,
then draw straws to see
who’s going in the hold
to get covered in guts
with no breaks all day.
There’s a guy who always volunteers
and is known for putting a flounder’s eye,
big as a peach pit
into his mouth—
then pretend to swallow it
and sometimes doing so
but not on purpose.
It’s morning. I think.
I should have passed on the beers
and gotten some sleep instead.
I crawl up the pitch to cousin’s cabin,
past glowing views of the Homer Spit.
I stop only to pick up a dirty guy needing a lift.
He asks me to drop him
at some church five miles ahead.
He’s been hitching since Anchorage,
but Ohio before that.
He says I look tired
but I can’t be as tired as him.
He says he’s having trouble
with allergies or something.
He snaps into a fit of scratching,
says his eyes are filling up
with tiny, flesh-eating worms.
He asks if God can help.
I tell him it’s impossible,
the worms, anyhow.
He covers his face with his hands
and I tell him I’m sorry,
I don’t know much about God.
His weeping keeps me awake.Originally published in Southern Illinois University’s Crab Orchard Review, Vol. 9, No. 2, pg. 43.
