When the fishermen anchor down
and finish up their meal, their boat
snagging on each wave, they drown
the nets and watch them bloat
in the tug of the sea. Fingers cleave
to long-cold mugs and, having no
food left, the sailors retrieve,
as an afterthought, the prized tin
of marañuelas. Each man receives
the shape baked for him,
twisted neat. Warm with pride
he totters the boat’s rim,
each loving sway of the tide,
carrying his golden home-knot,
a fingerprint baked into the side.