I am eight again,
alone with nobody
but my father
and a dinner’s-worth
of trout stiff-
spined in the ice chest.
Beside them are bottles
of Powerade which stain
my mouth red as the hands
of the son he wanted.
We thread hooks
and knot them impossibly
with translucent line. We are
tethered by the barely visible.
We wade, buoyed
on opposite ends of the boat.
There, I break the quiet.
I will learn to apologize.