Memories of Night Fishing

Bloodworms, scotch, banana bread, and histories
with Khartoum whores I wish were still alive
and fat and vivid as anthracite
in moonlight from a crescent.
What they all were were engines
I couldn’t turn off—they churned and churned
and churned—and my only option
was to make three pregnant in a single night
while the other two caught all the catfish
the half dozen of us would gluttonize
and suck on throughout one week to come.

Leave a Reply