The Scrimshaw Artist

by Charlotte H. Matthews

Spent years on the sea carving
into whale bone what he saw and heard

and came to know: the swap of ropes
uncoiling on deck, water heaving itself

against the ship’s hull. After his knife
scrapes out what there are no words for,

he fixes lampblack to make the images
stand out, day after day hunkered

in the crew’s quarters during spells
of no wind and rough seas and thick fog,

so lost in the doing he is eight again,
back in his childhood orchard as

Holsteins graze under the pear tree and
September’s light sutures the day together.