Blasphemy

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Blasphemy

In South Georgia, it’s
blasphemy
to say I hate

fishing,
but it’s
true. The
sick, sweet smell

of bait—liver and
worms—
clings to your hands.

And gnats thick
as grits
swarm your face.

The cast-iron sun
hovers over
the mute pond,

biting yellow flies
remind
you that Hell

is real and hot
and full,
and stung souls

cry out for some-
one to dip
a finger in water

and throw them
a line—
no matter how

poor and hope-
less
the catch.

2 thoughts on “Blasphemy

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