Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-six
Winter 2014
The Fishing Hole
Karen J Weyant

The fish aren’t biting, and I’m bored.
Sneakers untied, shoelaces dragging
and dirty, I balance on the banks,
see a muddy reflection of a girl

whose ponytail has worked its way loose.
When I slip into the ripples with a splash,
my father frowns and says
You will scare away what fish are left.

I wander away to find a fire pit
bored into the bank, wood burnt black
stones kicked out of place.
Cigarette butts smash against the ground,

the gold glint of a crushed beer can
catches the sun. In the shadows, a thin girl
leans against a striped maple, her skin pale
as the bones of a gutted fish, or a paper birch.

A dark haired boy slides his hands
up her shirt, caressing her ribcage.
His hands are dirty, fingerprints stain
the soft parts just above her hips.

Her sighs catapult insects into the air.
I cup my hands towards each jump,
catch a single cricket, its wings pulsing
in the palms of my hands.

About Karen J Weyant

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