They Won’t Return: Haunt of Thieves
Haunt of Thieves
They Won’t Return
Tide fans up the estuary a warm salt froth
That rinses rot, that hinge of flesh
Holding a clamshell shut
The gulls discard them careless cracked
To bake and stink with dragging seaweed
And wooden ribs will lose their battle
The fisher in his stilt-house barters
For half a hull to piece together
A walking path that rings and rudely cheapens
Cliff falls of carven masonry small demons
Sunk to their necks in sand
The victors here permit the poor to move in rags
Often they won’t return
The stalls where the road comes down
Sell goods for coin, in lieu of keeping tabs
Their keepers point to posters, totals tally-marked
As ranks are filled
Two work side by side to ease a third across
She, the water woman, at this task undaunted
Whether or not the limping man unwashed
Or lousy, both, her head is in his armpit
Her arm is round his waist
Her strength is wholly vested
The other cannot bring himself to grip
Has got the matted garment’s folds
And shuns the flesh
Tilts away, moves to the front, moves to the back
Purses lips and draws his brows
“My daughter, my true daughter,” the old man says
They Won’t Return
Charity
The Second Idea
(2017, Stephanie Foster)