"Fish, My Rivals"
by Rebecca Glover
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Once, we played Tyrannosaurus Rex In the backyard and flew grey kites Made of Arkansas Gazettes Over the firestation field Kite after kite disappearing To wherever kites go When they don’t want Children anymore. Watching our best box kite Sail away on the wind, my father Turned to my brother and said, “I think you should learn to fish,” And they walked away, Holding hands, leaving me to pick up strings, Sandwich bags, apple cores, and whatever else They’d left behind. The new bassboat is old now. I waved at them as they drove away, But sometimes, my father paused at the door, Fingered his car keys, Answered me, “Why should I take you?” I said nothing, I had no answer My reasons more elusive than their fish Caught in oxbows and bayoux. In my mind, I see their catch, The backyard filled with bloody Ranks of small mouth bass, golden-eyed, Staring up at my father, Searching his face while he kills them— Their thins, green lips mutely Mouthing words of protest. He ignores them. |