Silk Webs

Those who live 

outside of the ocean 

don’t know 

just how 

luscious 

blood smells in the 

deep. 

With viscera dyed 

blue-aquamarine, 

the potions made from you

craft heavenly 

drinks.

We saw you, three 

brothers, 

and burned 

red with passion, 

your trinity, weak 

and we 

incomplete.

With glistening smiles, 

we rose from the water

in masks: 

human- 

fashion,

our silk webs 

beneath.

The first catch was easy,

Ray’s tackle a treasure.

Took the hooks from his box, 

tore his flesh, made him 

bleed.

Through your arrogant mocking, you all 

don’t consider

that the fish 

you gut freely 

can 

gut you 

times three. 

The next kill was pleasure,

we moved to the galley.

There, we boiled James’ body

flesh bubbling with 

heat.

The last death 

went slowly,

throat wrapped 

up in 

seaweed

Barry’s soft pleading whisper, 

a sad salty breeze. 

Summer can’t feel like summer

without a good murder.

These men 

tame our 

hunger

fall, winter, and 

spring.

If you’re 

ever in 

Southport

with the ocean 

around you,

hold your tackle box tightly

or drown in your screams.