|Posted on June 1, 2011 at 2:37 PM|
Nodmeyer remembers clearly fishing
With his father on the lake. The small
Boat, the blue box of flies and hooks.
The still water, the calm sky. Just him,
His father, the rods, and the occasional
Fish hooked and bucketed. Nodmeyer
Has no son now to fish with; he sits all
Alone in his boat, him, the sky, his rod,
And his box of hooks and flies. His son
Drowned in the lake some years back.
Suicide, some say or insinuate in hush
Hush conversations behind his back.
The water’s unsettled now, sky’s black.