Bank-Fishing
For my grandfather
We are fishing before
dawn.
My grandfather’s
remaining lung
works for breath even as
we sit
and watch the bright tips
of plastic bobbers.
“What are your plans,” he
asks
as the bobbers drift,
the spaces between his
words
patient ellipses of
inhalations.
But I am ten—basic and
elemental,
and I cannot answer him
any more
than I can understand
what happens
beneath the water’s soft
surface.
I know that I have not
planned anything,
that I understand little
more
than expectation and
guilt.
Our bobbers are together
in the shallow
pool between large rocks.
Waiting, my grandfather
looks at me.
I want the sun to rise.
I want to step between
the rocks,
then kneel there, then
reach into the water
to find him an answer.
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