We sit on buckets, smoke old pipes
and check trot lines for loss of liver,
cheese, or gobs of blood with flour
and hog fat on the treble hooks
stretched across the river
a force of weight, the catfish nailed
to tree trunks for skinning
by the fire, the talk of women
and work. A raccoon chews
a rotting carp by mistake.
Give the water something cruel
like night, a lantern rusted
in the bottom of a rotting boat
and the mist will find your feet
drying by a driftwood fire.
The easy weep of evening,
insects creeping like lichen
on the eastern side of trees,
the men want to dream long
as rivers, want to follow
the moonlight over rapids
to the wing dam where bass
corner minnows into such a panic
they throw sparks across the surface.
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Issue 53
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Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems
by Tess Gallagher
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems