Saturday, June 17, 2006

"Fish Camp"

There are some islands of memory
that drift unanchored through the sea
of the everyday and the known.
Fish camp -- on a wooded hilltop,
a large screened porch, dense heat
that powers the whine of mosquitos,
the abrasive smell of hot iron kettles
over fires, oil hisses with catfish
and hushpuppies, potato salad
cold and dill cuts the grease
coating the tongue, and ice
rattles in thick glasses heavy
with sweet tea. A rust hound
snaps tossed bits of fish in
flickering firelight. Adult voices
indistinct and uninteresting drift
in and out beyond a creased deck
of Old Maid cards yellowed by
the porch light. Who inhabited
this island, and when and where --
all these have fallen
off the edge of the world.


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