Issue #5 November 2015
Detail from Evening Wind by Tim Frisch

John Stupp

Another Poem About Fishing

My wife
is pulling spots
into our boat
faster than
I can bait lines—
her rod bends
in the shallow water
a quick glimmer
in the tide’s circle
and these fish
want us
to eat  them
in pancake batter
per the local custom—
not like
some stranger


for FS

When she
takes your hand
there’s nothing to do
but wait for the end—
get a line
in the water
a number 3 sinker
a salt water rig
or they’ll ask
you to leave—
they don’t want
that shit out here—
they don’t want you
living like a sick hubcap
by the side of the road
like a peach
with a fake limp
rotting on the front seat
of a car—
pulling up anything
and eating it
people look at you
and tell you go to hell
it will be all over
by evening
by low tide
in the marsh—
cut your initials
in the pier wood
or buy a gun
that works—
you’re not fooling
they know why