Minnow
Those sweating summer
days where the petals
of garden snow peas curl in on themselves
like pursed pink lips my sister
and I would gather empty
five-gallon ice cream buckets,
pick up our jump ropes, and walk
through the fields – thirsty
stalks of goldengreen barley licking,
sticking, scratching our legs.
The canal crawled before us,
a muddy winding ribbon at our feet.
And we stood on the bridge above it,
looped the jump rope through
wire handles of empty cream
cartons and lay, belly-down
on sun-beaten boards to lower
our catching basket over the edge,
until it broke the film of old tractor oil
floating on the water
like liquid peacock feathers
and costume jewelry.
We waited, beads of sweat
boiling along our hairlines,
clinging to our cotton covered
backs, tasting in the corners
of chapped lips. We waited
until we saw the switches
of silver minnows swim
to rest in the bucket. Then we pulled,
lifting, giggling, and wrapping
the jump rope around our tiny arms.
We carried our catch home
careful not to spill
their darting, quivering
frail fish bodies out onto
cracked earth. We dumped
them in an old tank, filled
with canal water to make them feel
at home. They never
lived more than a couple days
before turning belly up,
their tiny scales reflecting,
fragmenting the sun.
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