By George Bishop

He and his live minnows
make their way to the private
dock not his own. A death
the night before has given
him permission to extend
his cast, come closer to
what he thinks he can see.
No chance of the old man
catching him now. Besides,
it only seemed natural.

The fish his neighbor never
caught had become bigger,
stronger. It would take a boy
to land such a fish. He knew it.
From the raft of his day
he tells himself again and again
about bobbers plunging under
the water like apples dropped
from the sky. He pretends
a huge tail slaps the pine deck
like a pirate’s map hooked
through the treble barbs
of his favorite lure.

The dead old man was busy
beginning the long swim
upstream the boy’s blood,
each eye a drop of oil,
empty, full of instinct. Fear
below the surface had begun
to warm, circle. One of the boy’s
full moons took its place
on the lake while a minnow
went belly up in the bucket
and something swam away.

George Bishop spent most of his life living on the Jersey Shore before moving to Central Florida where he now lives and writes. Recent work has appeared in Freshwater, The Meadow, Barnstorm and is forthcoming in The Griffin. His chapbook, Love Scenes, will be published in the Fall of 2009 by Finishing Line Press.

One Response to “Trespass”

  1. lapia says:

    These lines flow like a current, invite the reader to dive into the water and look at fish eyes however long and lost they may be. Really loved the mood and the story feel to it. Great poem.