Poem By Francis Santaquilani
This spot's only good for fishing.
No one taught me how.
The sun in the water hurts me
More than the sun in the sky.
A motorboat's buzz threatens
Like a swarm of bees.
Can't look up or down. Turn away!
A gauntlet of proud fathers and giddy sons
Unfurls. My feet are frozen.
My wounds stretch, tear and flare.
Turn the other way!
The corner under the pier, yes,
Greenish, wooden pilars, massive stones
Shadows, the dying wake.
A fish head,
Frantic, signals me.
Ridiculous in a lei of green muck and trash.
It slaps its hollow head against two slick,
Gray stones, loosening its lei.
Flies storm out of its black eye
Sockets and terrible, silent, black mouth.
Never looking back.
Even its stink has abondened it.
The last of the shine
Slides from its silver scales,
Swirls into the green muck,
Catches a little sun and sinks.
Both of our screams are silent.