They have waited for us in the country,
keeping the catfish fed,
bushhogging the pond banks clear.
We must pull up a chair on the long porch
while they hold down Sunday afternoon,
circling their voices on episodes.
Then we can take the cane poles
from against the chimney
to find what is left of luck.
Small bream toy with the ball of blood
on the hook, so when the big cat
strikes, it is more than I am
ready for, driving my line down.
The great ache of the pole quivers
toward heaven, before the line snaps.
For hours we watch the cork bob
and dive, raising clues.
We wade to our necks for it.
We cast a flounder rig, its hooks
vicious in the pond. It claws the cork,
thrashes fourteen pounds of catfish
against the bank. The line snaps again.
We take the gift of our fish tale
in the pink evening up to the porch.
They draw it to them like a prodigal son,
full of flaws, but redeemable.
They go to work on it.