The crappie deep, I troll
my plugs, the Model A
Bombers my uncle used
in holes, off points, pre-spawn,
for fish transitioning.
One rod on either side
spread wide, one short, one long,
“curb feelers,” he would say.
Back in the day, he’d wink,
“I’ll tithe a Schlitz to them,”
when bites were scarce, an excuse
to drink a morning beer,
as if I didn’t know the truth,
and take a slug then dip the empty can
and fill it full with river
and let it sink. He’d tap
his pipe then pack it full.
This magic I believed in.
Something about the shine,
the wavering as it passed
by fish suspended, must
have perked their instincts right.
Always, the bite picked up.
The day he lay in bed
and said goodbye to us,
his liver gone, his gut
give up, I wanted magic
again, which never came.
He mumbled in his death
and hissed and cussed, DTs
provoking visions more
than pain or lack of food.
And when he slipped away,
my aunt said he had gone
with God. I wanted to
believe that magic, too.
I pop another beer.
I check the drags and steer
the bend. I tithe a can.
