I place my head against the windshield,
a cushion propped between me and fiberglass,
me and fish sacrifice,
close my eyes, rod in hand;
beyond my eyelids, twilight
pink and gray hovers
above hills and pines and the buxom
roundness of Adirondacks.
White deck is bloodied with remains of fish gut
gore from the night’s abundant catch.
Small-mouthed bass provide our sustenance.
Oh God, and now the moon
rises nearly full, streaks her flaxen path
onto the dark black ripples;
my white filament bobs
in the stream of billowy light,
our green and red bow lamps,
amber glow of houses on shore
fires’ flicker at island campsites.
Beacons blink on a straggler boat or two
as they shudder in the rolling lake
bright yellow flashing from their sterns.
Aroused by the slow breeze
the gibbous moon, Mars’ glow
as sky descends, our bodies heat.
We climb into the cabin.
Our skinny bunk as hard
as an army cot, we make love
map one another,
moans driving song to shore, our arms
wrapped in delicious night.
The mountains press closer
in the bright darkness,
surround us with mammoth shadows,
surround us in our small white boat
in George’s basin.
We are the living on a ghost ship, silent, still,
our love sated, our poles poised
at attention stalking the fish
who swim the holy water.
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