Excerpts from Skyward from the Self

1.

the face of a fish, a trout, a weighted thought, lived for years in the black lake, for years, from fry to broken flesh and this is no revelation

firm, thick bend of flesh, flex of meat, heavy, unblinking, slick, fish of dream, plato’s fish, this smacked body-flinch—from life to death

not a poem of sorrow, not a flick of regret, the flash of water flung in the sky, the burst of lake skyward from the self-preserving tail

and this perfect morsel, this unblemished self, this scathed or unscathed, scaled green, gold, blue, black, pink, orange, grey, white, embolism of existence

cracked once, twice above the gills, centred thump on the hill above the eyes like so—cease

the ode, it’s supper time

beyond the silk gut, the gorgeous spleen, the sated crows hanging around on the beach, the memory of a weight in my arms, first as I pulled it forth and then as I held it close

the evening glare off the fading shine, the dried slime, the filet knife catches the flash of light, the after-image of the rod held high

5.

gleam of flat light off the water burst when the sun breaks through

air between prow and water

a moment in which I am aloft

arms high surging higher

10.

and this perfect morsel, this unblemished self, the unscathed one

gone

beyond, the satisfied crows hanging around on the beach

and me with the memory of a weight in my arms

first as I pulled it forth and then as I held it close

the filet knife catches the flash of light

I held the rod high

the image of a fish, a trout

and then? a weighted thought

but no revelation, no poem of sorrow, no flick of regret

instead the flash of water flung skyward

from the self-preserving tail

heavy, unblinking

slick fish of dreams, oh

sing the ode, it’s supper time

the evening glare off the fading shine