Mare Draws Her Lover Fishing at Dusk
As dark begins to dissolve the body—
the crown of his head, the belly’s swell, the ankle—
I watch him sleep, recall how he settled back
on his heels just hours ago, sent a line keening
swift and precise over the lake. Everyone knows
a cast is not a question of strength so much
as a relinquishing, that the line’s release
is an extension from the wrist to the lunge
and snap of a Cutthroat Trout. I sketch in the ribbed
trunk of a cottonwood, label it Populus trichocarpa.
Something of what the eye took in is translated
to joint and grip of finger, until ink gives back
the crumbled snag of bark, the silver-sided leaf
dipping like a fish through the evening air.
The wing of his hand is the last thing to go.
— Anne M. Doe Overstreet, author of
Delicate Machinery Suspended
All poems, art, and photos are public domain or used by permission of author or publisher.
