Sunday, April 7, 2013

#7 Bites

I'm stuck here, trying to find the great symbol
This frame is history
This frame IS history
Like the flipping breathing flapping kind
I want to frame a day fishing with dad
Those hard impossible Saturdays
Where only Mosquitos bit.

These days in the dirt, the muck
By pits they dump bodies in, maybe live
How do I frame
How do I contain
What I complained so bitterly about
Worm dirt under fingernails, sunburn
Those weekends of hunting for a bite
Mosquitos obliged.

Of honor jar worms at end of dirt roads
Places my dad sat sketching
He never had the option for art
Just work, hard work, cruel work
And fishing and not so much catching
And two daughters who hated
Waiting for fish bites
In veils of Mosquitos.

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