The gentle hands of a noble fisherman

Sputter and quake from old age. The slick steel of his icy anchor buries itself into the ground–

 licking the floor of the salty sea like the razored tongue of a sand cat. His working hands swiftly separate what is marine– knowing every fish he finds will let his family feed.

 The moon has kissed the sky a thousand times since he last lowered his anchor into the feeding sea. Mary has birthed and raised her children from the ashes, since the last time his boat occupied its ocean seat. A lamb was born, 

hunted, 

and roasted on the spit since the dense steel of that anchor introduced itself to the waves– 

but even now, a thousand breaths since then, we grasp our

 tainted fingertips behind our necks in hopes our lungs will remember how to beat the water when it flows too fast. Instinct lives idly besides kindness, but it never lasts.

Summer sweat is enough to wash the wrinkles away from drunken skin,

But the mother with her head stumbling above the water doesn’t remember 

how not to drown in it.

Carving my initials into the tender belly of a six-day fish perfects the fine-motor skills built into my fingertips. This is my kindness.

I am human when I am the stator

or the rotor

 caressing the border of self-destruction.

 I am human when the blood tilting out from my veins fuels the train as it chugs along its path. 

My salt-soaked cheeks sputter every engine alive 

Once it is moving, I digress.