Way down under the sea
where Davy Jones’s locker lies
or one fathom down from
the roof of the water’s house
where the crab boats sail
on the edge of Neptune’s domain,
where the waves have no rhythm
like a song without a pulse,
the waters churn and the devil romps.
The Bering sea becomes the Devil’s Sea,
the devil’s harbor outside of Dutch Harbor,
the assemblage of the crab, the land of plenty,
waters stirred up by the pockets in the depths
and the flapping tail of the sea beast.
No longer is the rhythm
of the crests and troughs,
the poetic undulations of predictability,
but a madness of hodgepodge,
of rogue waves teeming and running wild
in the playground of the devil’s lot
like the churning of the witch’s brew,
attacking from starboard and port side,
an assault upon the fleet
with their acts of demolition
powered by the pockets in the depths,
the peaks and valleys of the down under
where hell has its glory,
then rises up to the surface
and attacks the fishing fleet
as the fishermen flirt with death,
men with nerves of steel and iron hearts
who die for the sake of the crab,
placing themselves in the bowels of danger.
On the table at the five-star restaurant
where the crab is decorated with parsley,
where the people gather to dine,
nothing is thought about the fishermen
who risked their lives to catch their dinner.
Nothing is said through their thankless hearts
as they throw away the food that is left
after stuffing themselves full of crab.
For the men of the fleet who lived through
the Neptune Madness, job well done.