Knee-deep in a stream’s churn,
Robert and I wade, flip slippery shale
and iron ore
in our pursuit of crayfish.
Below the highway
and behind the cineplex,
between two dumpsters,
is a cut
in a chain-link fence – the entrance
to the path rambling
through scraggly woods
to the best crayfish hunting
grounds in town, or at least approachable
by bike or sneaker.
Black flies bite the backs of our knees
and behind our ears. The sun digs
her press-on nails
into our shirtless shoulders,
our crew-cut scalps.
Our fishing method methodical,
simple: antagonize the crustaceans
until they claw-clamp
onto our scrounged-up sticks
and shake them off
into my mother’s clothespin bucket.
We flick sparks from shoplifted lighter
onto dry leaves, twigs,
and sun-scorched grass – contained
by a river-rock circle.
We boil city-spoiled stream water
in a dented coffee tin, dump
the critters in two at a time
and let them roil
until they’re steamy and red.
In a year, my mother will ship
me off to live with my father.
I’ll attend college, fall
in love with the French Surrealists.
Robert will flounder – he’ll go to prison
for beating his wife to death.
But for now,
we’re eleven years old, cracking
tails and sucking juice out of heads.
The way our absentee fathers
showed us how to do,
doing our best, trying to remember.