ON THE PORT Poem by Hédi Kaddour

There are traces of salt
Everywhere the wavelap
Gnaws at the cement. An odor
Of rancid axle-grease mixes
With brine and the sun rises
In great red slaps against the fabric
Of slow water and the first lobster-pots
Thrown out towards the quay amidst the gulls'
Shrieking. Tenderly
A hand skims the surface of a tub
Where the last star is disappearing
And then: ten francs, ten francs
Exclaims the woman peddling sardines,
I'll do the live ones same price as the dead!