GH O TI

f i sh

Issue No. 2

Susquehanna

You were driving into a fog

Over the wet Poconos.

I said the road is a seal we are chasing

Shiny and rare along the Susquehanna—

One dinghy presses the surface,

A bent rod tears for a trout.

You philosophize a fish can’t know water

Until it’s out gasping in our fingers—

Slower, I said, the river’s dropped

Low enough to glimpse the bottom,
So we broke beside a guardrail

To see the bed’s mire.  You smoked your Reds

And I felt my jaw

For a hook in my flesh.

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