They say
he swallowed his children
to keep time from touching him.
That he steals fishermen’s souls
and knots them into nets
for the sea to unravel.
They say
his mind is duller than violence,
his rage older than storms.
That words slide off him
like rain off oil.
They say
his hair is kelp,
his nails are shells,
his skin a scale-bound riddle.
That no blade can split him,
and every bite he leaves
bleeds forever.
They call him
wicked,
base,
a monster fit for no tale worth telling.
They say
you’d be better off
talking to a beast made of thunder.
They say all that.
And a lot worse.
Well then.
Let’s take a closer look.
