The long hot summer we repair
an old fishing boat on Harbour Road,
did we beg, borrow or steal it?
Spend hours putting gummy paste
between planks, sticky glue elders
use to keep a smile with false teeth.
Swaddled in canvas, held above
ground, like the basket our Bermudian
maid used to carry us to the beach.
A crucifix is left by a Portuguese
hand above the captain’s wheel,
Jesus’ body in the pinch of compass
points like pink putty. Softens rough
angles through the humid days,
caulks the crack when we split apart.