Bursk, "Ice Fishing"

For hours at this hole in the ice
the boy pretended to be the last person alive,
left with the task of testing the world's depths,
pulling up line, measuring by arm's lengths.
He'd feel the little tug
of the metal weight and then all the lovely looseness
of the line. This morning he'd heard his mother breaking dishes,
his father sobbing with anger again,
crying out, "For God's sake,
for God's sake, Kay."
He thought if he just tried hard enough,
did one thing well,
he might fix things, he'd bring home a fish
just as if he were a normal kid in a normal family,
and his mother would be so pleased, she'd get dressed,
and the kitchen would fill with tarragon and butter
and fish sizzling, that luxurious oily smell,
and his father would open the windows at last,
and the winter air, sharp and clean,
would cut through the grease
of too much happiness.




Christopher Bursk

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