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South Platte
by Rob Littler“We eat what we catch,” Grandpa said,
As I cast my line amid the thundering
River behind me, held back by the boards of the Dam—
Brown milky water spilling over the top,
Spewing almost clear, tumultuous. Me, still
Wet with setting the posts and staggering
The slats, standing poised on the concrete pad
Knowing all those cubic feet of water now
flowing to fields to irrigate. Hungry enough to want
To chew a catfish raw. Eager to let the bobber be
Pulled down deep into the wash. I catch
Out the corner of my eye a slimy one, sailing
To the pool, and just as instantaneous,
There is a tug—My fingers sense it first on the swivel—
Pulling the hook deep. I do as I have seen done
Before, and pull and reel and reel and reel then pull
Thinking of the tartar sauce, the Friday bliss of it.
Little did I know of the gutting, the eyes, the breathing it did, not
Breathing, really—suffocating. Blinking. Gaping.
I could not lift my fork. 09/26/2013 Posted on 09/26/2013
Copyright © 2024 Rob Littler
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Linda Fuller on 09/26/13 at 08:50 PM Watching a fish drowning in air is very painful. I remember as a young child accompanying a much older male cousin to a stocked pond; for some reason, he did not put the fish he caught into the creel - they just lay there on the dock gasping and writhing. I was too timid to say or do anything.
I like the descriptions and energy in this poem; my jury is still out on the final pun - although I do like it, it's not in keeping with the rest of the poem's tone.
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| Posted by Linda Fuller on 10/02/13 at 02:18 AM I like it :) |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 01/03/14 at 08:10 PM So you played both catches--and we can only guess at the scale of the change... |
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