1 poem

by e.h. thatcher

Uncle Eric Teaches Me to Fish

as pike and bluegill tread
the width of Little Torch.

His thumbs, thick padded scars
from lips uncounted, pull
taut the knot. He pricks
worms with silver hooks,
hands covered in silt.

Perched near the bow, we behold
a distant shore. Loons skim
the blue opacity, gnats weave
their patterns, breeze pulls
waterlilies and crushed pine needles.

Half-father. Wanderer.
Lets me drink Sierra Nevadas,
ramble among conifers, vault
over the pink moon.

Feter. Mentor.
Wears mustaches,
patience, laughter—
Euphonies of Ellsworth.

He lights a cigarillo and turns
the motor to life, winks
as the smoke rises like astral dust:
“Nothing better than this.”