The Difference Between Kneel and Keel

The Difference Between Kneel and Keel

K has a hill to climb before she gets there,

slippery and wound outside of herself

groping for air.  I’d cast and wait

and pull and

all by the way the line was hogged

it was obvious he’d pushed

some trout out of the way

and gorged on the night

crawler fat with

blood and dirt.  The first time was lightning

on my pole and when, ignorant,

I felt it, I pulled and

reeled and pulled

and reeled

until the furious knot surfaced.  I tell you

I nearly threw my pole, the whole

thing, into the water.  I was

expecting the near quiet

rainbow, her flappy  

tail and pond slime gleam a success

story never needing words.  I was

hoping 24 inches, and a hike

through with her on my

fresh cut alder V stuck

through her gills, her round kissing

mouth.  Praying for it really.

There’s just something

about handing a trout

to your father: It’s

as pretty, maybe more, as the fish

herself.  But listen: There’s

some praying you

absolutely must

not

kneel down for.  And there, in the duck

shit, in the sharp glass and

flaccid LifeStyles, dropping

to my knees

was out

of the question.  So pulling up

and standing as though

the keel in me knew

fathom after fathom

of depth

was the only kneeling I could do.  Would

do.  My father was far away.  And

the eel, writhing, bopping

immature fist it was,

found, it must

have, my revulsion sexy. I stood it.  And

he, lurching and retreating, zipped

himself up and slunk off.

There’s reason the blood

on the knife glowed.

Please.  Don’t tell the trout.