FR 232

by R.A. Pavoldi

Alan used to haul lobster from this bay
pulling traps from the thick breathing air,

dove under in winter for urchins spiny
and cold on the dark green shelves,

a slow crab breathing through a hose
while his life held its breath waiting above.

***
The abandoned bilge pump is stark
on the shore of Newman Cove at low tide,

and for twenty years I’ve been coming,
it’s been there rusting,

tangled in its decaying chain that disappears
under rocks and rising water.

Where balsam and spruce lining the shore
disappear when fog rolls in from down east,

where granite is exposed, then submerged
every six hours by twelve-foot tides, where

birch and lighthouse draw their lines,
and clear nights sprinkle galaxies at arm’s length.

This place that amplifies senses, where one
could get carried away, where I put a house

by the ever-changing water and sky, a place
one might reconsider notions, hear stars.

***
I wondered what he saw last in his trap,
dash lights, fireflies, stars, what he heard,

I wanted to check the dimmer switch and
radio, hold the steering wheel and shift,

wondered if he joked with the counter guy
at the auto parts store measuring the hose.

***
The old pump murmurs when the tide
passes through on its way in, then out,

I tried to drag it the hundred yards of
rocky shore to my place one year

but got maybe ten feet, it is heavy,
rough, and rusted except for the shaft

that protrudes stainless,
shining whether sunny or overcast.

***
Venus was so bright over the bay in
February I could see its crescent,

a miniature moon next to the big moon
seven hands over shining stainless,

reflecting on Gouldsboro Bay, on Newman
Cove, pulsing so bright it woke me,

so bright I went outside and sat by the shore
on the stone steps I built in July

in his memory after hearing the news,
because he used to build stone walls,

I cut down the tree between the house
and the bay he said he would if

the house was his, opening the view
to eternity as he said it would.

***
He was found on Fire Road 232
in his pickup that had idled for days

with new radiator hose running
from the exhaust into the cab.

Once I recorded the hollow sound of
the gradual tide passing in and out

of that rusty pump, the echo of
slow hearts, aqualungs, bivalves, stars.

 

R.A. Pavoldi is a self-trained poet writing over 50 years and credits the Napolitano American dialect and school of hard knocks for his voices. Places he is grateful to have been published include: The Hudson Review, North American Review, FIELD, Cold Mountain Review, Crab Orchard Review, Hanging Loose, Tar River Poetry, Ars Medica, Italian Americana, The American Journal of Poetry, recently in Viewless Wings podcast, Sky Island Journal, Atlanta Review, Slipstream, and I-70 Review.