D’s Bones

Near our trailer park home
I explore the meander
of a narrow stream.
Dark gurgle
discloses a mortal
struggle. I grab
the slimy tail,
flop it to the bank,
drag it home.
Proud.

It’s nothing
but a spawning salmon
full of
worms.

Once again
to my mother’s husband,
I do not measure up,
will never be
a fisher-
man.

Seward, Alaska, 1952

My father died when I was seven, and my mother remarried when I was nine. We left Tennessee, journeyed over the Alcan Highway to Alaska. From her husband, and from the place, I quickly got the message that manhood (very important) was in no small part measured by how well one hunted and fished. At the time, I had no experience with either. Described here is a fish I managed to catch, but that still got away. It took a lot with it.