This leaving season hasn’t quit me
but there are no messages from the heron.

A passenger visits the boiler, asks about the fishing.
My answer: trust nothing that swims out of the fire,
there is not enough brine to baptize it.
Another asks for a memento. I tell him
fire trolls are notoriously stingy with their magic.
Learning to spin tales of coal and dead water,
I lean on stories told me as a child
by creatures cut out of shadows in my room at night.

A deckhand asks about my tattoo
and I hesitate to talk about gatormen.
They have been swimming towards me
trying to collect me for decades,
since my bed served as a rescue boat
on nights I dreamed I had gills.