The Winning Poems

FIRST PRIZEWINNER

A MIRACLE OF HERRING
Ross Cogan

Rare in these warmer, North Italian waters,
a dying man's wish uncoils in his mouth,
ribbed white flesh unsheathing pearly bones.
A freak swell, a fishmonger's aberration;
we levered off the lid and there were herrings
tucked in the crate like silver chalices
cupping the relics of their own dead eyes.
An owner's gift to a servant; not a lot
for all these years. The prior held the pewter
plate for the juices rolling down his chin,
favours of skin tied to their bone lances.
Masses mourned into the chapel rafters.
He lingered three more days, the younger brothers
stealing in to touch his cloak and gape
at his jowly, sleep-daubed face. The gift of herring
his last and only miracle. Outside
he might have heard the knife working its stone,
the blade's argument against the soft faith
of flesh, the disquisition mapping his limbs,
the whirring buzz-saw hum of the mind of God.

"...a spiritual piece... it holds hopes, fears, tremors..."
- Jo Shapcott.
Image (photograph)
Copyright of this poem remains with the author.
Next  |  Previous  |  The Winning Poems  |  Notes on Contributors  |  Home