FISHING THE QUINEBAUG
by Bill Tremblay
FISHING THE QUINEBAUG
by Bill Tremblay
No trees grow on the bank below
Thompson’s Auto Parts. I can whip
the Royal Coachman, a small dragonfly
wrapped in orange hackle with no snag.
My telescopic rod is my wand.
Teasing the line is my one good trick.
Desperate to find something I’m good at
I hope something startling will rise
from that little lower layer.
Everybody in town knows
no edible fish live in this river.
Cut them open, the guts are textile dyes.
They are purely for practice.
Mist from the falls is good for my lungs
since I got pneumonia in the hospital.
A blunt nosed dace takes my lure,
spins like the prayer-wheel of my bicycle.
The points of its dorsal fins sweep back
like demon bats alighting on my left shoulder.
On my right an angel hovers silent
with a hook in its mouth
like a mother weeping at a wedding.
Priests know prayers in Latin but say them
like butchers honing blades.
Rivers start with trickles and gather force
as streams merge and reach their climactic falls.
I fish where the river goes calm.
It means what it says. I will say fresh prayers.
They will be miracles and feed multitudes.