Stiff as a crustacean’s carapace
we cram into rain gear and stretch
on gloves to the auxiliary’s muffled yodel
and the gargle of percolating coffee.
A quick cup and smoke on deck
with some Nice to see your smashed-
asshole face this mornin’, then toque
and flashlight on, and climb down
into the forty-below-Celsius hold.
Bent into the boat’s cramped belly
cold air clasps our lungs in a metallic
vice—crystallizes to ice upon inhale,
melts to mist with each exhale—as we
load totes down through the hole’s
narrow mouth, feed it the frozen flesh
we caught and killed last night.