Shawn McLain


We were two tall water tupelos
whose feet were muddy, legs wet,

and a camouflaged man crept in gray
reflections of our bodies. He hauled

a small fishnet in thick and dirty hands,
gave an odor that was natural, human, man.

Tragically fragile between us, his legs
leeched and raw, with magician skill

he caught one fish after another, took
them to shore, we watched his hands

make two pieces of Limestone look red
like Potassium Feldspar or a stop light.

Or like fire he built to cook his kill. Grill
on top, wood on bottom, barely enough

to cover a whole meal, and our bill
was set out to see, only ten green

limbs, he snapped one after another,
smiled, cooked, fell asleep laughing

with a stomach full
of the world around.

Still, we do not move.