My Old Filleting Knife Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

the sea gets everything
in the end
the blade, the quicksilver
sliver of my Normark blade
pitted like the moon
I retire you to the sepulchre
of the bottom kitchen drawer
you felt the spray and in
your day, lay in gory glory
on the salt strewn deck
sated with slicing the electric
blue mackerel
you listened to our pretend
viking roars, not with oars
but rods bow-bent, and now
to Valhalla my blade is sent
to applause from raised cups
and those shadows in the Hall