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On Myrtle Beach Pier
I remember the high arc of your line
casting into horse-maned waves,
strong hands as yet untroubled
by trembling, easily reeling smaller fish
to throw back in, again and again, a circle
of give and take, and how after searching
salt-surf, the jolt of fierce life banging
the rod down almost to breaking cut
a smile across your face, the frenzy
to impose death on the unwilling fish,
the satisfaction of almost losing shining
in your eyes like light reflects off scales.
I remember this, an emotional fish
wriggling in my mind’s hands as I search
my own churning waters, before it slips
my grasp, too slick to pin down:
red snapper-joy of fireworks, cherry soda;
hagfish-hate spewing slime of racist jokes.
I tried to deny them, bury them all at sea,
but your barbs are hooked too deep in me.
The grief, the love, the anger, the relief
all cling to me like barnacles
no lime can ever remove.
Copyright ©
Ben Throne
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