Read more poems by Ron Rash: Ron Rash Poems at Poetry X.
Mouths shackled, dead or dying, the bluegills, rainbows and browns dangled from shiny metal my father had thrown like chain into the shallows, noon sun shivering the lake's surface like mirage as snake doctors zigged and zagged—deep-blue needles threading air. My bobber snagged again in reeds, hot and tired, I entered a grabble of briars, tightroped a creek-board to where my parents lay on a bank blanketed by cove-moss, each turned to other, my mother's hand tucked inside my father's half-unbuttoned shirt, his hand brushing ground-lint from her hair, and in that moment I knew I did not belong to them, not in that moment, and though the gift of that summer took years to unveil, something stirred even that day when they came back to me, my mother's waist cradled by my father's arm, his free hand reaching to lift the stringer. I remember how it surfaced glistening like a crystal chandelier, the fish shimmering color as if raised in prism-light.
Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 2 Dec 2008 4:29 AM | Viewed: 1480 times
A custom PoetryNotes™ eBook may be ordered for this poem. Get help with your homework - delivered in 5-6 days.
For more information...
![[home]](http://plagiarist.com/images/home.gif)
Ron Rash
Print
Analysis
Comments