April and a morning shower blankets us, covers
the shed out back where my father’s fishing equipment
is stored. On mornings like this, he searches
beneath rain gutters for worms loosening the earth
with his hands, sifting it back and forth; collecting
each body he finds in old crusted Tupperware for bait.
Sometimes, when there isn’t enough, he cuts them
in half. How concerned he is, ensuring there’s enough.
It’s the silence he likes: the solace of being alone,
standing on the bank holding his fishing rod, watching
nothing but the tug of the line against the current until a fish
takes the bait. Most days when he brings home a good catch
I like to watch my mother clean the fish. I stand
by the kitchen sink staring at her blood-covered hands
as she tugs their heads backwards, stripping
the skin from its flesh: this new kind of nakedness.
