To Go Fishing as a Family

To Go Fishing as a Family

was to start the day slicing 

and salting sirloin, washing 

links of pork kielbasa, cutting 

open a chicken, and folding 

fresh steamed rice into foil 

paper. We’d forget the drive 

but remember the lengthy trek 

to a provisional portico 

along the racing Sacramento, 

a verdant stretch of shore 

lined with arroyo willow 

and scouring rush. The musty 

scent of California mugwort 

mixed with crittered mud 

announced our arrival, and 

for a moment we’d watch 

the singing water rush along 

without worry, and we’d let 

the wayward wind weave 

its way through our fledgling 

hair. We’d notice Dad’s license 

safety-pinned to his front pocket 

because just last week 

wardens had stopped to harass 

a group of dark-haired fishermen

but this time they only watched 

from their passing barge 

as we dug holes on the rocky bank 

and pretended to be knights 

storming a moated castle 

and as the shadows wore 

away the day leaf by leaf

ray by ray, we’d gather 

wood for an evening fire 

while two chats played 

a twilight game of chase 

across the fervent river.

To keep our itching fingers 

from scratching new mosquito 

mounds, we’d take turns 

attending the salted steaks 

smoking on top of a makeshift 

cooking rack Mom had built 

before the sun sank 

into the arms of Nyx. We’d 

imagine hungry eyes 

watching from beyond, 

drawn to our ember porch

by the smell of hominal fare

but too scared to approach 

lest these mortals cared 

more about their food 

than their share of responsibility 

for their earthly kin. To go 

fishing was to bite into fire cooked 

chicken and fatty kielbasa 

under the light of a lantern, 

dipping each piece into 

green onion and cilantro 

pepper sauce Mom had mashed 

ahead of time and cherishing

the way it stung the roof

of our busy mouths. Steamed 

rice never tasted so good 

as we observed each other 

across the fire, our blossoming 

eyes alight with singing bliss.