“What is broken, God Blesses” and Piranha Fishing
Piranha Fishing
Your wife tells me I should write your obituary; You've got the writing talent. I want this as a compliment, or some kindness--but I must confess, I always thought her a bitch. Here: rustling leaves sound like rain, or bubbling Piranha. It can be relaxing— a swim in Piranha-infested waters. Razored teeth thirst for large mammals like monkeys or humans if blood scents the water. Father, you read this from my guidebook: Lago Panacocha, a place I did not visit despite your urgings. I cannot say I'm sorry— even if “they're surprisingly easy to catch,” and “make a fine meal.” I might've brought back a jawbone; kept it in colored glass. . . but I'm not much for fishing. So it's cancer, then—this is what your obituary must reveal. Can you see, Father? Two squirrels twitch around the base of this trunk; bodies ripple across clover— waves of hopping, bushy tail— too many gnats today. Remember Rich's poem? He said, mother’s ashes were gritty and yellowed, heavy with chunks of bone; father’s ashes smooth like silt. . . If I could put my hands inside your body you could glide through my fingers. You, too, would be silt, father.
