Uncle Stephen always took the early boat –

I used to grumble that the sun wasn’t even up then.

It’s the best time, he would say, but I remember father

coming home in the evening, a blue-green head

hanging slenderly out of his leather bag.

Uncle often came back empty handed.

I’d hang my head upside down from the edge

of the boat; I had no interest in duck hunting.

Uncle Stephen, it turned out, didn’t either.

About 20 yards away, swayed gently – Miss Pam

and her old rickety boat. Uncle only had eyes for her.

No wonder he was such a bad shot.

He’s perfectly aged, mum used to laugh. He’s been hanging

around her for 20 years, and I just hang my ducks for 5 days…

Later, Miss Pam died in a weird horse-riding accident

and Uncle Stephen stopped going to hunt ducks

and became a minister in a church, two towns south.

His ducks are all store-bought now. Frozen.

Whenever I used to ask him about Miss Pam,

my uncle would feign ignorance and divert the subject.

I still remember, my head hanging upside down the boat,

my hair wet from the lake water – Sometimes, I’d dip

a bit lower and wonder if this was the view fishes had

when they got curious enough to dare the skin of water.

I remember telling my uncle that I knew what dead fishes saw;

Looking at an upside-down lake with the sun floating down –

One slow orange wedge at a time, till a burning tangerine

and careless upside-down men missing shots

because they were preoccupied; But I never told him,

that I remembered him, once, almost shooting at Miss Pam.

Uncle Stephen used to tell me, that I was the one

who turned him to God – I never believed him.

– The first was an accident;

a dare at playtime…

A forgotten break – forgotten

school & time. The second

happened in the middle

of a nightmare; I walked

the church alone

when suddenly

– Sunday; some time

after mass… I was talking

and my Sunday-School mate

surprised me; cut me

off mid-sentence –

with his lips – vanilla…

leftover from the ice cream

The church had

– distributed; in a forgotten nook

of a forgotten book filled

with my amnesia notes; I remembered

and still do… The slant

of sun; the hypotenuse

of the afternoon; the F-sharp

a myna sang; the air spicy

with carnation; my heart

– in fermata; the stillness

of our lips; the counterpoint

of blood and winds; only my ears

could hear, and then, he –

moved back; a hesitant smile

crumbling, till my smile

soothed his edges with

my eye-kisses; silent

– we knew, we knew; this dream

would remain a nightmare

in the nook of a church;

we walked back. We didn’t

hold hands; (we did that

later) and walked back;

monsters into a hall

full of saints –

I caught him at dusk;

.     The sun, another stone sinking

and wind, having escaped

.     the clutches of sycamores,

.             screaming freedom through my eyes

water also, from an almost rain

.     almost blinded me, but the pull was strong

and he was a big fella.

.     I could tell – when I finally reeled him in

.         I felt like a sycamore; a breath I held

escaped like accidental prayers

.     I verbalize from time to time

like when I catch an almost bus

.     or almost escape falling, down

.             sidewalks – escaping another God-trap

or when I catch a fish like this

.     and he looks like my first born; pink little piglet –

defiant gaze; no cry – no sound

.     till the nurse rushed him away

.             and I stood salt like – Lot’s wife.

His jaws – bloody and defiant

.     curved under a thin steel rod

He looked like a punk rocker.

.     I removed the hook and threw him

.             back; I decide not to call him Andrew

my son, would have loved to fish.

.     Maybe he would have paid more attention

in Zoology 101. I slept through it

.     and couldn’t even ask a fish

.             his preferred pronoun – another regret.

It helps me relax!

My insomniac mother would say

as she’d wave a caramel-stained spoon.

Those nights I’d wake up for water and find her

in the kitchen with a jar of honey and Jane Austen.

Some nights she’d make clementine preserves

from the tiny oranges we grew in our farm.

Some sleepless nights,

I’d partake in my heritage –

her night vigil

I once asked her why she had trouble sleeping.

It would be many years before she’d give me an answer;

One night redolent with moon, and the kitchen

effused oranges, she suddenly said, Jesus,

looking at me dreamily over an army

of sterilized jars, should never have

cursed that fig tree.