James Allen Kennedy poem in Literary Potpourri

On warm summer evenings
we fish for perch in the
Figure 8 until it gets
late and the grass crackles
cool under our bare feet.

This pond's been fished
for a thousand years,
or more.

No rods, no fancy
monofilament, only
cotton at the end of a corn-
colored cane, rusty hooks
or a bent pin, a ball
of wet bread
the size of a pea.

The fish swarm to the bread
as it plops in the water
among the skyscraper reeds,
loose leaves, lily pads and
tangleweed.

The Figure 8
at night is the most
peaceful place on
earth, soundless,
black, and yet so
very safe: like a womb
on the edge of town.

By the side of the pond,
Father, flat cap tilted,
fries the fish in dripping,
riddles the pan on a low
crackling fire, as though
he's a seasoned chef.
White fish dance
spitting & sparking.
On his haunches,
breath full of beer,
half a Woodbine dangles
on his lip, glassy-eyed,
he gives us his mile-wide grin.

The giggles of children
split the night like a
firecracker in an
empty church.
Crack-crack-cracker!
Crack!

Father yells the food's
ready. The dog salivates,
so too the children.
Done to death but
sweet on the bone,
the perch are good to eat.
Gone from pond to pan to
white flakes on a fork
in five minutes.
For fish,
life is short on
the Figure 8.

Everybody wants
more, but there is
no more, not until
tomorrow night at any rate.
Moans and groans,
we're out of bread,
no more bait,
and we can't dig
for worms in the dark.

We're leaving soon,
the dog barks,
she knows it's
time to go and anyway,
father needs another
drink. He always did.

In the distance beyond
Rushton's farm, beyond
the factories of
Schofield Lane and the
coal mines of Ga'bury Bridge,
Borsdane Wood
howls in pain as she
burgeons in millimetres.
A million years old,
but she still has the
growing pains of a
child.

Bats are
out and about, close by,
from barns and belfries.
You can sense them as a
dog senses fear
but you can't see them.
If I stand
on my tiptoes I can
see the dull yellow lights of home,
a mile away, where mother
watches television,
awaiting our return.

I want to go now,
after I've eaten the fish,
thrown away the bones,
I want to go home and
kiss her goodnight; but
before we arrive she'll
grow tired of waiting and
go to bed. She always did.

Moon scatters herself
upon the water like a
shower of silver pellets
and the stars are so
dense and near,
all I have to do is reach out
and gather them in clusters

A canine chorus
of neighboring dogs
follows us all the way to
Rivington Pike,
past Winter Hill and the cold
Lancashire Moors.

I lie awake for an hour
gathering stars.
I can still taste the
fish on my tongue.

I always will.

FISHING THE FIGURE 8

by

James Allen Kennedy