Angling

e9be3d089388b0337c1feb7c9a65da03

 

I found my father in pauses

between syllables,

dangling from a participle.

He waited for me, his semi-

colons were lake-water

chilled lures,

drowned and disguised

figure-eight night crawlers,

or drenched Velveeta cheeses

we brought along

in his wooden skiff.

Some waterlogged expressions

bloated in the hull,

got soft and stunk

in the midmorning sun,

drying harder than

plastic shavings

or broken eyeteeth.

How many sentences were

cast into the depths

waiting for a trout mouth

trolling from the stern,

untangled with a twisted line

after carefully selecting the spinner?

He patiently showed me

how to angle

where the spoken word

had fewer points

than a barbless metal hook

and all of the fish

slipped easily away.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s