Feeding the Fish

Feeding the Fish

My father woke before dawn
to feed the fish
fed me if I rose early enough
and caught him
runny eggs, coffee, under-done bacon
while he sat reading westerns
at the kitchen table
so quiet Death would’ve tiptoed

The morning washed over
the dirty white curtains
watched me stand just behind his back
working towards the courage
to ask for more toast

Then into his truck the sun so bright
through the dust of the morning
I closed my eyes to all things
sat in the cab while he stacked
50 pound bags of fish feed
back bent
strong like the arc
of a sledgehammer

Later I climbed
scared / tired / cold into the aluminum boat
watched his hard arms move
land
water
sky
all around us till it looked best
everything blue / warming / his slit bag
dribbling food over the side
like sand pouring
through his rusted hands

Fish trailed us like children
until winter
when they lay fat from our food
and we dragged our nets


C.D. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site, Murder Your Darlings
Cortney remarked:
(Originally published in Blue Collar Review, 2004, I think)

Notes: This poem was heavily influenced by Besmilr Brigham, though more narrative than she tends to be. Of course, you can't really see the form, here. This is one of my favorites from Riceland. I keep coming back to it. I love the images from my childhood--Dad loading bags of fish feed, dawn rising over the Lake (our name for the overgrown stock pond) the smell and taste of water in the air.