Curse of the Lobster Woman

a new wind film noir

Nude modeling will only get you so far
when you're on the lam from an architect and the funny farm
and the Cadillac the British bastard let you drive
has now been repossessed a final time:
a nasty heart attack at 35
and the gallery is up for grabs
and all that fell into your blood-washed hands
was a legacy lobster license: Maine 1A
they wait like German Shepherds
with guns to peel away.
What's a femme fatale to do
when it's colder than an anaconda's smile?
You haul the traps, they dredge the bay
for a forensic match of you.
When they ask about your whereabouts,
your sister hands them a blank page.
But now they're closing in like Fundy caves
across the Grand Manaan,
the fire dogs to the hell cat you used to be
have set up shop along the coast
to raise their spawn and hang their laundry
and gaze out longingly through the vapors to Monhegan.
Even your sister has been asking about me
to warn me off your scent, presumably,
but I saw the secret code upon the buoy
came from your hand,
a woodworking front
they call the Cove's End
where all the gremlins from the ancient lairs
still laugh and draw cartoons
of all the precious salvage crews
who never were amused,
but something else is going on
in that red barn when the black smoke rises.
What thought had you of chickens & the bribes that made them squawk?
What plots for your betrayers who spun red hair into gold?
What photos of Charybdis do you possess?
The scavengers with claws may know, the holy bottom-feeders.
The tide comes up like a toilet bowl
and the dredgers, foiled, all rust.
A horn sounds in the harbor, a warning in the dusk
to beware the secret laughter of red brushes in the dust.