Free Lucky Me by Fred Simpson

F ISH
    The sun had not yet breached the line
    of hills hemmed in, (gentian, jagged
    hills), and the inlet at the turn was
    smooth as paint.
    Novice father, novice son sat down where they were
    bid, as everyone but they had settled in the stern
    and everyone but they was busy
    with his hook.
    The vessel shuddered as diesel turned
    the screw, then puttered to the entrance
    of the harbour where the current strained
    to claim more sea.
    Each was silent as the skipper crossed the
    bar, then up each jumped to stab at bait
    with kukri primed on oil stone. They
    could not wait,
    they had no time to catch the streak
    of orange red nor spot the sweeping gull
    miss fish, but seconds had them holding taut
    their rods with leather grip.
    At last the boat approached the reef and idled
    as the anchor chain was dropped below her bow.
    The motor cut, and hesitation held until a nod allowed
    the reels to scream.

    The two who brought new rods meanwhile
    had coffee slosh like washing in their bowels.
    They reached for sugared ginger and dropped
    their swaying knots;
    while at the stern burnt sailor arms were
    striking, bending, gaffing
    out great coloured fish both steel and bronze
    without a glance.
    The father and the son meanwhile, though sick, were
    hoping for a snap to honour just one fish, but
    every fish that one could eat was brained and
    put on ice,
    while barracuda (even shark) was cursed and
    slashed then flung aside like factory waste
    to flap around as further bait for
    barracuda (even shark).
    By noon the sea was flicking white and
    lurching at the boat, the men were drunk,
    their bin was blood and lines
    were ordered out.
    The welcome motor puffed alive, the anchor
    clanked and slewed as it was crudely winched
    aboard. The two where they had spewed
    sat still, ignored.
    The travel back was best forgot but the
    vessel reached the harbour calm with no
    one drowned, no one harmed; no one
    but the bream.

    Stiff fish were dealt out on the wharf and each
    went off with more than he could freeze. Even
    they (the father and the son) were given
    one to gut;
    but when they reached their mother-wife, whom
    they had hoped to please, they could not
    raise another knife and curve it through
    the fish.
    So settling for a simpler dish of turnip
    stew and beans, they wrapped their golden
    prize in foiled tin and gave it to
    the trees.

M Y B ROTHER’S D UCKS I N V IETNAM
    Opposite, on the bank
    of the slow and final river, Ant
    ducks, their paddle feet no
    match for cocks’ and hens’,
    hurry running in a flurry
    of tail and neck, hissing and
    nipping while their opponents
    rape and scrape and peck.
    A boy no older than Alice,
    (part-time butcher bringing
    breakfast rather than blade),
    drops slops from his mother’s
    bucket, while his dog (also
    white like Alice), yaps with
    imperium at their bleary
    buffalo shackled in the shade.
    Ant! A brother in another
    world illuminated by ineffable
    text which I can float to for a
    visit. He was no older than
    Alice when the cobra killed his
    ducks, and, when I get to pay
    my visit, I will gather down
    and place it in his chalice.

S MOKE I N W INTER
    Like ice against enamel
    the wood coal squeaks
    as xylem splits and phloem
    spits out fat-hot sap,
    and smoke – the alluring
    fume – curls unmolested
    into spirits, not all solemn;
    but no one speaks.
    Up then, up the lichensmothered
    trunk it creeps,
    smudging one by one
    the witch-long walnut
    digits, and licks them dry,
    dry as tongue, eburnean
    sculptures, not all solemn;
    but no one speaks.
    And further still, through
    halted winter night, it seeks
    to filter constellations
    that I know but cannot
    name, primal/parent smoke,
    the burning eyes of children’s
    hopes, not all solemn;
    but no one speaks.

E UREKA !
    Imagining is chemical,
    sugar-powered kiss and collision,
    electrified ingredients
    gathered from experience
    to zip, then zip undone;
    molecules conjuring up song
    and insurrection; catalysts
    acting moon, hurrying