Flood Lake

This poem was written for a Modernism/Postmodernism class. The assignment was to create a Confessional poem. I rather liked it.

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Flood Lake

When trapped in hell
There is little to do but fish.
What sin had we committed
To land us in this place?
The paradise of our parents
Was our personal inferno.
Thrust into a pre-digital wasteland,
Mutual boredom bridged our differences
Of past and complexion.

Net on my shoulder, rod over yours,
We traipsed past the forgotten cemetery,
Where babe and sage lay side-by-side,
To the tumultuous lake
That swallowed the park
Man had erected in its honor.

We made our seats amongst the boulders
Set to shore the foamy waters
Against the lonesome road.
We sat silent. All had been said
In the past three weeks
Sitting on those stones,
Catching flotsam.

We weren’t alone. An elderly man
Felt it wise to spend his dwindling moments
Prospecting for silver pike
In the murky depths.
We were prospecting for sirens.

We found entertainment
Somehow.
Time passed. The elderly man readied himself to leave.
I noted his proud, slimy catch with envy.
He walked up to you, selecting as
A shard of flint from a bed of quartz.
The break in monotony caught my attention.
You draw closer with a scowl and explain.
“Says I took his tackle. Dowallie; didn’t even.”
We scoff in unison as his compensationary jeep departs.
A thief in our midst? How absurd!

The rippling of the waves as they lap at our perches
Speeds the drawl of time. We wish the sun down.
There are fires to make. The rippling tranquility of the water
Can’t hold a candle
To a roaring blaze,
Hungry for nourishment,
Insatiable, but never ashamed.
The destruction enraptures us.
The fetid decay of the water,
Stinking of carcasses,
Only captivates us.

The elderly man returns.
With firm absolution, he apologizes
And hands you the fish.
He says his tackle was in the back.

Now we are three. It’s near supper.
Time to show our guest home.
I clutch the net that holds the fish,
You manage pole and bait.
A smirk sits tauntingly on your lips.
“Probably too heavy for you, anneh?”
I grin in response to mask my strain
And insist I’m more than sufficiently mighty.
With a shrug, you dash off ahead,
To the hunting lodge,
With its trophies,
Past the cemetery,
With its markers.

I watch you crest the hill
Each step burns in my arms
And my shoulders decry my pride.
The trek had never seemed so long.
As my frustration and shame build,
The fish, in all its hideousness,
Seems suddenly pathetic,
Wound in the net, gills gasping,
Its mouth gnawing out a silent plea.

Was it pity, or pride?
I claimed pity. It upheld my pride.
I went down by the waters,
And, with soothing words, let the creature free.
It lay limply near the shore,
Unaware of its opportunity.
Probably soon another carcass,
Rejected by its habitat
And thrust into the world above
To stink and fester amongst the stones.

It would be easy to retrieve it,
But, free of the burden of the gift
Presented to you, I found new fleetness of step
And hurried after.
Easy come easy go.

“How was the fish?”
A friend of the elder had asked you.
I filled with indignance as you conveyed
That you’d told the truth.
I’d set it free.
“He let Ned’s fish go? For shame!”
There was a thief in our midst.
But I’d never thought it was me.