Innocence

Memory's the thing. The fishhooked on the end of that string, hoistedhigh, a live iridescentdisc, perplexed eye on each side—it hung like a lone wind chime . . .

My grandfather hollered like the kidI knew he was, Youcaught that sunfish! But he lied—he was the one who'd lifted that lifeto the sky, out of the public pond

on the map of my memory, that dayin Fairmount Park. I was five,the air far brighter than oldereyes could admit, the crowd of wadersa sparkling carnival of spirits

come to shine incarnatein the earthly light. But memory,kind servant, mightprotect me here—maybeit was I who hauled the sunfish out,

dragged it onto the sandand dirt among the soda cans,cigarette ends, and tossedwrappers. Did I poke itwith a stick? Was I six?

Was the fish ours? Perhapsan older kid beside us, who'd learned to pierce the wormwith his hook, had let us look.All I'm sure of's this—

I saw a thoughtless dyingradiant thing—it hung,gasped, turned in the stirof useless air, in the wind of lightand time. It still hangs there.