Walleye Chop

[ini­tial late-night jot]

the min­nows are flown in to camp
on a sin­gle-prop sea-plane and
kept aer­at­ed in an open-top
Coke machine. At dawn I go
get a dozen or two, depend­ing on
how well we hope to fish.
The wind is good for wall­eye
who hunt in mud­dy water and
are them­selves hunt­ed
by me. I take off my glove
and thrust my hand into the min­now
buck­et, grab­bing a hand­ful
and let­ting all but the fat­test
swim free. Hook through open
mouth and secured through the
thin cal­ci­fied bone of its head,
twist­ed, secured again through
the spine and final­ly put in
the water. Rou­tine. I wipe a bit of
blood on a tow­el
smelling like a week of fish slime
tug my glove on with my teeth
dream of dry feet and torn alu­minum
with mush­rooms, pep­pers, and
a bit of fish. if i’m lucky.

[v 1.0]

The min­nows are aer­at­ed in an antique
Coke machine. At dawn I get
a dozen or two, it’s hope,
not neces­si­ty.
Lake-wind
is good for wall­eye,
hunt­ing in mud­dy water-
them­selves hunt­ed
by me.
I take off my glove
thrust into the min­now
buck­et, clutch a hand­ful
and let all but the fat­test
swim free.
Then rou­tine hook
through open mouth,
barb-punc­ture the
cal­ci­fied bone of its skull-
twist, secure again through
the spine. I wipe a bit of
blood on a tow­el cov­ered
in a week’s accre­tion of fish slime
tug my glove on with my teeth,
turn my back to the wind.

[v 2.0]

These Cana­di­ans keep their min­nows aer­at­ed
in a rust­ing Coke machine. At dawn I get
a dozen or two, for hope, not neces­si­ty. Lake-wind, good for wall­eye,
search­es my pock­ets

a glove­less
thrust into the min­now
buck­et, barb-punc­ture its skull-

twist, secure again through
the spine. I wipe a bit of
blood on a tow­el heavy with

a week’s accre­tion of fish slime.
tug my gloves on with my teeth,
turn my back to the wind.

This is anoth­er poem I’ve been work­ing on for quite some time. It just isn’t falling togeth­er, and does­n’t have the strong res­o­lu­tion I like my poems to con­tain. I can still read it and see the seeds of some­thing that needs said, but I can’t fig­ure out what that some­thing is. I hate when that hap­pens.