Bogachiel Rearing Pond

Grandpa,

My chubby fingers don’t reach for yours.

Those gnarled traps have closed throats but

your stubborn blood pumps hot in my cheeks and

I shuffle closer to you, your mossy oak sweater, your stink of old blood.

Woke up early enough to see the elk in the field across the street,

the mist so thick it tangled in their antlers like melancholy

and I felt it wanting me.

Hot chocolate gone cold in my styrofoam cup, 

The yawn of a fishing pole, cast, 

pissin’ down rain, you say, 

tiny nibbles tug and you tell me to reel ‘er in

but these 5 year old muscles ain't good for shit 

and you end up doing it for me,

killing it for me,

and I watch but don’t feel much.

Published in Pile Press 2021 Fall Reading Issue 2