stands in the bow of his fishing boat,
an image like an anchor in his mind.
God knows what he thought
to prompt such a drop, his soul
like a tragic Titanic
plunging into the dark.
He must have felt
the whole congregation
watch as he stepped from the boat,
as he hovered an instant
before physics put its foot down.
The cold twisting like plastic
around his ankles, the hem of his gown
sputtering like a wick
before the candle goes out.
No doubt Peter was a good man
except for this thought I am thinking about,
one the Bible's omniscience
never explains, an impulse that makes
a saint no different than the rest of us
treading water. Suppose he couldn't shake
a craving for fish while he tried
to focus on heaven, or his nets
needed mending or he worried-
there's never enough time.
Mary Magdeline's memory maybe
caught him off guard, an image of feet
in warm water. All we know
is that Peter lost faith.
The sea tried to swallow him.
He thought
and his thought was enough.
The sea has an appetite.