Look at me with those crooked bangs and baggy shorts
at the end of the dock of my grandparents’ cottage.
My father pushes a squirming worm through a hook—
Does it hurt? I ask. Grandpa ignites a fat cigar.
At the end of the dock of my grandparents’ cottage,
Grandpa coughs up thunder. I turn from the worm.
Does it hurt? I ask. Still no answer. Grandpa puffs his cigar;
he is always smoking a cigar, and yes, it does.
Grandpa’s cough is thunder. I turn from the smoke-worm.
His lips press a cigar; my lips stick from Lip Smacker.
He always smokes a soggy cigar and yes,
it hurts to be a worm dangling from a hook.
His lips cradle the cigar; I lick my strawberry lips.
Grandpa’s pockets bulge from butterscotches and matches.
It hurts to be the worm pierced by the hook;
it hurts to be handed more candy pieces than words.
Grandpa has bumpy pockets from butterscotches and matches.
My father, in a minnow shirt, casts the line.
It hurts to be handed more candy than words,
but at least I am not the worm.
My father, in a minnow shirt, casts the line,
cracks open a Bud Light.
At least we’re not drowning like the worm.
I suppose we should be thankful for that.
He drowns a slippery beer.
The men talk about the good old days.
I suppose we should be thankful for today.
Grandpa hands me a butterscotch.
The men talk about the good ol’ days.
The fishing pole becomes a curve, bodies tense.
Grandpa casts me a butterscotch,
my belly sour from sweets and hooks in fish.
Fishing pole becomes a bow, bodies tense.
My father unhooks the fish,
my belly a tangle of fishing line—
Father gives the water back the fish, the fish back the water.
