INHERITING MY FATHER'S FEELING OF NOT BELONGING

 

by David B. Prather

        

                                                                                        

Beeg feesh, he promised

with backwoods mockery,

that wide spot in the river

we had to trudge to find.

My father shushed me,

told me not to scare the bass.

Any sound, any tremor,

could make them flick and

dive into their muddy dens.

I wanted to be there, summer,

with dragonflies tapping

at the surface, the click

and cast of the reel, a tug

at the line. He whispered, Now,

and I flinched the rod back

to set the hook, believing

the lie that fish don’t feel

pain, no matter the thrashing

and panic, that fight against

the pull from one world

into another. Walk it off, he said,

as though the ground could

absorb my ache, pull it from

my flesh, snag it from the stream

that flows though my heart,

agony and sorrow

swimming those chambers

where they grew large

waiting to be caught.

 

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David B. Prather is the author of three poetry collections: We Were Birds (Main Street Rag, 2019), Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023), and the forthcoming Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press, 2024). His work appears in many journals, including Prairie Schooner, Cutleaf, The Banyan Review, etc. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.