Once, When

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Once, When

I was five, or six, or seven, or
eight, my dad took me

fishing at Lost Creek. With poles
and tackle, we threaded

a briar path from the high dirt road
down to the creek, its thin

bank sandy as a child’s hair, and
water the color

of sweet tea. He loved to fish, but
I can’t remember

the pleasure on his face, only
the two man legs—

like abandoned fence posts whose skew
still marked a dividing line—

standing beside me while I played
with a freshwater

crawfish I caught and trapped
in a tiny scooped pool,

his feathery gills breathing and
breathing for all

his little life was worth.

2 thoughts on “Once, When

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