After a frantic afternoon  
in room 18 at the Dockside Inn, 
we emerge under ragged clouds 
and stroll the island’s main street.   
Picket fences are gray in off-season.   
Time drags across the autumn sky 
and snags on the lighthouse 
guarding one end of Old Harbor.   
 
We pass boarded-up stores and restaurants 
but discover one lit souvenir shop 
and step inside.  I marvel over a Lucite  
treasure counter tucked in a hidden corner. 
Earrings and lockets gleam as dreams of  
pirate’s gold and polished silver doubloons. 
He buys me a scrimshaw pendant, 
an oval slice of tea-stained bone, pretense of ivory.  
 
Its tiny ocean churns.  A gaunt harpooneer  
stands tall in the longboat bow, arm forward. 
A tether rope snakes behind the deadly harpoon  
in mid-flight, soaring over a fluke 
on its way to the exposed rubbery side  
of a breaching sperm whale. 
The creature has no hint of pain to come, 
a simple drama drawn with finely etched lines. 
 
Sea mist shrouds the sun, 
and agitated gulls screech overhead. 
The air smells of rain 
and seaweed oozing salt at low tide. 
He refuses my hand. 
When this day ends, so will we.   
The ferry horn blasts like a fiery bull elephant, 
searing the scrimshaw of us into my marrow. 
                        

The shadow on my brain scan 
speaks in tongues to the oncologist. 
Racing home, eyes brimming,  
I swing into the driveway 
to see a man’s arm 
in an unfamiliar shirt sleeve  
pulling my front door shut.