Scrimshaw
by Larry D. Thomas


Intricate schooners
carved on whalebone
dangle from her wrinkled,

elongated earlobes.
She hasn’t spoken
since the day she learned,

fifty years ago,
she’d lost her only son
to the briny darkness

of Davy Jones’s locker,
her grief frozen
on the verge of breaking,

unforgiving as,
fixed and shattering
with hairline cracks

on the dark
canvas behind her,
the crests of Homer’s oil.






Copyright 2018 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.