|
Fishing for Family
[Original Version]
My brother had a pike on the line
too big to reel in, early in the morning.
We were at large in the Smokies,
a whole day free to roam, high
for me, low for him. He stayed lakeside
and I climbed up to the fire tower
on Mount Shuckstack, watched
a brown hawk rip by as well as
two young women pee. They didn’t know
I was up in the tower. Then three dudes
came in sweaty off the hot trail, and one
sat in the cool grass beneath the tower
right where one woman had peed. I laughed
so hard Gatorade chuffed out of my nose
and I was discovered 60 feet up.
“Guess we weren’t alone,” she said.
I waited till they all left, saving us
from mutual embarrassment,
and returning me to the silence
I had been sharing with the hawk.
Five hours later I found my brother
gathering snakeskins. He had poled around
with the pike for an hour before letting it free,
and went for a cold swim to an island
where he thought he heard a bear.
When I told him I saw two women pee,
he knew I wasn’t lying. Why would I
have said two when one would have done?
“You’re sure gonna pole your pike
on that one tonight,” he said to me.
On the way out the next day, I thought
I heard a bird hissing so loud
I must have been near its nest
so I looked up and saw nothing
but when I looked down, there it was,
a five foot timber rattler, head raised
and spitting at my knee. I froze
and slowly backed out of the strike zone.
My brother had trailed behind a bit
and when I warned him to look out for the snake
it was as if I had added a third girl to the tale
and he didn’t believe me. But then he saw
with his own eyes. “Holy fuck” he said,
and I said “indeed.” He threw a rock at it
but it had already slunk back into the green
silence of the cool glade. And we stood amazed.
Possibilities swirled like stars in a stream.
What if the snake had bit me eight miles out from the car?
What if there had been four women,
and I had fallen out of the tower?
What if my brother got lost looking for me
or had drowned and the pike went cold
on the grill or had been lost to a bear?
Enough happens in the woods even when nothing does.
But the backdrop of silence against which
one hears a water fall or one’s own
foot fall is as an ocean or night
immense with stars. This is why
I once thought the utter annihilation
that is death feels closer in the woods.
But now, many years later, my brother
has been murdered by three thieves
who broke into his house and stabbed him
with his own kitchen knife as if
they had mistaken him for a fish
whose life they had the right to take.
Since then, my faith more often than not
fails me. I don’t know what side
of the fence the wilderness is on,
and I wonder about the kindness
of the kin we call mankind.
Can you not hear in any room
much less a forest or the sky
how quiet things are without us?
Fishing for Family
[Prosimetrum Version]
I wake to find my brother has a pike on the line too big to reel in early one morning. We are at large in the Smokies, a whole day free to roam, high for me, low for him. He stays lakeside. I hike up the trail to Mt. Shuckstack and climb its fire tower. A brown hawk rips by. Two women roll in and pee, too late for me to call down. Then three sweaty dudes show up. One drops into the cool grass right where one woman peed. I laugh so hard Gatorade chuffs out my nose and am discovered 100 feet up. “Guess we weren’t alone,” she says. I wait till they all leave, saving us from mutual embarrassment. The silence I had been sharing with the hawk floods back.
Anything can show on the AT. It turns
strangers soulmates or soulmates strangers.
Round any bend, flowers, toads, crow or hobo,
but mostly, the deep peace of the woods.
Hours later I find my brother wearing snakeskins. He had long since set the pike free and gone for a cold swim to an island where he thought he heard a bear. When I tell him I’d seen two women piss, he knows I’m not lying. Why say two when will do? “Sure gonna pole your pike on that one tonight,” he ribs. The way out the next day I hear a bird hiss. Am I near a nest? I look up: nothing there. I look down: five-foot rattler, head raised, spitting at my knee. I freeze, then slowly back out the strike zone. My brother had trailed behind, and when warned to look out for the snake, doesn’t believe me. Then sees with his own eyes. “Holy fuck,” he yells. I say, “And then some.” He looks for a rock. I ask, “Why?” It had returned to the green silence of the cool glade. We stand amazed.
Possibilities swirl, stars in a stream.
Often we flat out don’t see or see
only what we believe we can see.
Then someone leaves. The light changes.
What if the snake had bit me eight miles out from the car? What if there had been six women and I fell - or was thrown - from the tower? What if my brother got lost or drowned and I found the pike cold on the grill or it had been lost to the bear? Enough happens in the woods even when nothing does. But the backdrop of silence against which we hear a waterfall or our own foot fall is an ocean or night immense with stars.
The annihilation that is death
feels closest in the woods.
We see nothing human there
to distract us from who we are.
But now, many years later, the feeling is everywhere. My brother was murdered by three thieves who broke into his house and stabbed him with his own kitchen knife as if they had mistaken him for a fish whose life they had the right to take. Since then, my faith more often than not has failed me. I can’t see what side of the fence wilderness is on, and I wonder about the kindness of the kin we call mankind.
Can you not hear in any room
much less a forest or the sky
how quiet things are without us?
Look. A leaf is falling.
|
|
