all fathers 

all fathers take
their sons to fish in me--
what else is 
an hourglass
for?
blue gills & sulking
bass left over
from the spring
fishing derbies--
they're
kneeling on my banks
while the ducks leave
their feathers
like apologies-- 
on occasion i have
the honor of waking up
as the lake
in fleet wood park--
the one where
the bullfrogs are burrowed
deep in the mud 
by the first frost--
the one who wraps
herself in thick 
green algae come june--
today in my cracked
dinner plate finger nails 
i felt boys tremble
on my rocks--
peering in-- trying
to see themselves--
greeting their own
ghosts surfacing
in my face
balancing--
i keep hoping they'll
fall in & i'll
lift them
with both my arms 
back to the air--
it is january so
the park is empty &
my cheek-bones frozen 
over-- 
cataract-eyed  
& sleepy i let
the feeble skeleton
of the sun press
against me--
is this the feeling 
of being forgotten?
the gradual
shattering of
nails & teeth--
am i becoming a sandbox?
tumbling through
the world's soft
pink fingers--
i never did learn 
to cartwheel but
watch me somersault-- 
is this 
the hardening of
my water into slate?
there we are--
i can see us
my father & i &
billy on crooked-wooden
bench april--
fish hooks snagging 
worms-- billy with
a bag full of potato
rolls to toss
to ducks--
my father's
appetite for silence
brings a hush 
over the trees 
as they hold in another
sigh-- 
casting out-- 
hooks
dipping into my
skin-- i am so lucky
to be able
to live
a second life 
as quiet water-- 
rewind my own knees--
my own father's 
thick hands--
i am 
(of course)
careful not to
laugh so they don't
fall in 
i dream of 
what it would feel like
to have them swim
in me-- 
their memories
as air bubbles--
their wet shoes &
baseball caps--
reaching into me
with 
invisible fish lines
we make our own
telephone
wires to speak--
finger on
the line-- they
hear me breathing
in the ripple 
of the surface--
often i am mistaken
for a fish on
the line--
i can't help it--
i am so eager 
for them to be
here--  
but it is january
& i am tired 
& there are
foot prints in
the sandbox
from feral cats 
& the occasional
brother--
passing through
in blue 
sandals--
i only wish sometimes
that
the hooks do something
other than just
pass through me--
i miss the 
pain of skin--
the audacity of
wearing
illegible skin
i go back here when i
feel like there's
no where left--
when i want
to feel simple again--
squish potato
rolls between my
fingers &
cast out
again & again--
take your sons
to fish in me--
reel in my body--
the blue-lipped
boy who tried
so hard to 
grow gills &
somehow became
an unassuming
man-made lake 
for everyone's father
to teach them how
to fish