Absentee Indians and Other Poems

The Last Fish House

The Last Fish House January crosses the calendar like a good story. Slow and steaming breath words swirling up our ankles. Wind drifts shapes we tell and can taste like meringue tufts of memory. Derbies, fish shacks, poker runs. Winter ages slowly. Now metal runners squeak across frozen lake. Hand-fashioned wooden sled heavy with spears, decoys, auger and ice-fishing rigs. Single-handed he clasps the thick, frayed rope, pulling the collection of candles, stringers and pails, thermos, sandwiches, pickles, and fish house candy. Behind, silver minnow bucket sloshes its cutting weight passed from gloved hand to gloved hand as we follow him follow the tire tracks avoid each open angling hole leave the tree-lined shore squint tearing into rays sharpened light on white on ice. Oversized boots insulate toes wiggle giddy with excitement. "Which one is ours?" "Who's going to spear first?" "Are we going to use Les Hanson's house, too?" 11 12 Stand now in the moment of arrival each breathless with the efforts ofjourney, of quiet centering in the blue white middle of being here. Thick-parka-clad and bright-colored flashes upon the revolutions of ice encircled by barren arbor womb-covered by winter sky. Here. In the turning compass of time in the still point of ritual lives curl fetal in contemplation uncurl in sweet bounty of motion and sensation. Strong arms lift and descend chisel strikes ice rises up, clashes down cuts wider, cuts deeper into the frozen silence into the frozen memory of water until water arrives seeps through splashes up the sides of the hole. Another smaller circle boring further into the spiral. This swell of motion round moist center of being here. Ice patterns hypnotize children stare face down read cracks and bubbles many shades caves and textures winter crafts of water. Play warm in the afternoon sun skaters jump small mounds of snow squealing to a stunning stop faces prickled by wet shards as one blade point comes down spray of tiny chips flies up. Everything here cool sharp as ice chips: sun's legend, blinding reflection hand auger biting into frozen water fishing rig's metal tips stuck deeply wet exposed fingers baiting the lines pushing hooks through squirming minnows smooth cold handle of the four-pronged spear spear thrust shivers into body of fish stinging stars tingle through numbed feet and fish spots dart behind closed eyelids. Now crowded together on overturned buckets, folding chairs or blocks of chopped wood. Ragged army blanket hung at the door covers slits of rebel light one fabric veil between brilliance and blackness. Sitting hunch-shouldered in blackness now watching and listening as fire crackles softly in the barrel stove. Fishers of fishers gathered in the darkened ice shack. Passing snacks whispered stories and time between us. 13 14 How once a muskrat rose sleek to the surface snapped inches from your hand surprised you weren't a fish as you were surprised by his hungry fury. Remember the broken-backed pike who scarredyour hand when this house sat two hundredyards c:ffthe south shore. Finding old fish and faces in the green black bottom. Accounts sometimes muddied, silt-clouded by sudden false spear throw. Waiting the winter for clarity knowing how it comes to water when sediment settles. Remembering even dark January lake seems lighted by contrast; our dim lives by ritual. Remember the white.fish swimming just below the suiface racingJor a taste ifthe bait. A cravingJor wax worms their downJall that winter. Puppeting carved decoys making wooden fish swim dip dive across the length and width of the rectangular hole cut in the floor of the house cut in the floor ofice beneath. Necks stiff bending over watching the weeds for movements watching beyond the ice edges waiting for a smooth long length to be lured in by green painted scales to follow the flash of tin fins. All eyes concentrate on the water epicenter, only lighted area in our six by eight world. Schools of minnows flutter in and out curious sunfish and perch swim to the flashing intruder hover back up turn tail and rudder their exit. Watching the underwater drama for the signalfear to clear the small fry away. Holding our breath for the entrance: the big one cautious nervous lingers at the edge of the hole withholding...