He says,
“Dad was just like me
with the jitterbug bait—
that’s these.”
He lifts one up:
“They’re slayers.
Get that off a pier.”
It flashes in his hand,
green scale, metal wing,
still smelling of oil.
Then a blade—
“That’s a good knife,
made in Japan.”
His voice catches,
then lands like a gavel,
as if a man is measured
by what he can hook,
what he can cut,
what he can claim—
as if manhood itself
were wrestled
out of the water.
I have to take his word for it.
I never caught
or killed—
a fish,
or anything
that proves a man.
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