The Fishing Boat

by Audrey Minutolo-Le

In block letters, her name 
emboldened the bow. 
The bulkhead and hold 
stored the ring — an orange floating lifesaver — behind closed doors since her childhood: 
a Temptress White Cam Hatch without a lock. 

A ton of shells and an Englishman 
couldn’t have changed the course 
of her long life. Sinuous waves were  
replaced by a concrete boathouse and a bed  
of sand where she lay in wait. 

All things led to the beginning, and 
underneath her hull lay years of travel. 
Depth and substance had defined her,  
redeemed her —but confined her— 
and kept her afloat. She was on display.  

Mounted on the aft, her denigrated name stuck.
Indeed, she didn’t know how to be without a captain.
Not that she was a perfect vessel for love — 
the undulating sea left her a bit damaged, barely
able to navigate. She was going nowhere. Fast.  

Sheltered now, no home port.  
If only she could have 
left that island early, cast off from what  
once was here at this salt pond near the bay: 
a summer wonder Aqua Land.  

Instead, like a fish out of water,  
The Empress remained drydocked, 
parallel to the horizon, tanks  
empty, but licensed and painted, 
all ready 
for sale.