sometimes we fight

 
 
this beach under my feet tonight
this long golden stretch of sand that arcs away from the front steps of the pub  
curls around the bay to the blood red cliffs  
where the whale came to die last month  
filling the bay with sharks, white pointers  
that are always there  
but easier to see  
when they came in to strip the whale  
returned it to the sea  
the only kind of burial a whale gets  
 
this beach has seen it all before  
 
only four generations ago  
an invading tribe tied all the local women and children down
on this beach  
right here  
and slaughtered them
then ate the men  
 
must have brought the sharks in too  
 
they say that great whites can live to be a hundred  
so out there in the bay tonight
there are sharks who were feeding then  
 
I stand on this beach most Saturday nights  
after the bar has closed  
and the men with nowhere else to go stay on  
to pass bottles of hard liquor around  
and we laugh and shout and shit-talk  
and sometimes we fight  
but usually it’s just the island guys who are up for that  
men still angry from the time when killing was culture  
warrior tribes who took everything their strength allowed them too  
and expected the same  
if they grew weak in numbers or spirit  
 
so we drink  
until the liquor runs out  
under a hood of stars that will still be there  
after our own meat has gone bad  
 
on calm nights  
standing this close
we hear noises out in the bay  
and once or twice  
have heard a burst of power  
a spray of water  
a heavy thud  
as a body breaks free  
then slams back to the sea  
 
the men shout in joy/fear  
a shark that big is a devil in our minds  
that even liquor can’t make us brave enough for  
 
we pass the bottle again  
and someone starts a story about an uncle who rowed out there one night  
 
we listen  
smoke  
wait for something to end  
 
I try not to count my days