One of these boats carried Mary,
put to sea by the Romans,
the crying woman, hands wrapped with rags
that smell of myrrh. And a tomb angel
guards the beach. All the fishers have fled in fear
except the one who stayed to spread his cloak
over the water. For the women
in the boat, no sail, no paddles.
And the mourning Mary. Miracles,
she tells him, are untouchable.
The fisher guides her hand
to the red boat's prow,
the old wood thick
with loving paint. Hold fast
mother, he says
and the women are gone.
Flat sea. Four boats
returned to shore. Curdled cod's breath
sky. A yellow mast, yellow grass.
Some kind of large grey wing
floating in the water,
washing up against the rock.
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