From one side of the boat
to the other,
we fished.
One spot
two feet away
is better than mine.
My brother traded his place
with my father,
catching fish
in the shadow of the prow.
I preferred the twinkle of sun
off starboard,
near the wheel.
Each place was better
than the other.
So we moved,
traded,
disputed the merits
of our places.
While the boat drifted
my mother ate a sandwich.
Fished from the only spot
none of us wanted,
in the middle.
We baited her hook,
she looked off, maybe at the Antilles,
we could not tell.
Her eyes were hidden under
her hat.
Perhaps she was playing a game
with her sisters,
remembering our brother,
killed in the war.
Did it matter where we prayed,
where we leave initials?
Why one moment has more meaning
than another?
What our choices are?
Why did the fish bite my bait
and not my father’s?
What is the random sound
of the storm asking?
How’s the fishing?
What bait are you using?
Is the place at the front better
than the rear?
Will we have an answer
when the buckets fall?