"Indian River "

It was not the coffee-colored Hudson,
with its fist-sized floating turds and
long latex sleeves -- rubbers
we called them. They made the world of
night and men seem dark beyond my imagining
but real, hard to understand, like the taste
of sour pickles, swimming among mustard seeds
and hard black peppercorns in an open cask.

It was not the East River either,
where boys and I swam against the rules,
against all cautioning of rats and polio
because it was hot, too hot
on that black pier and we needed
the sting of cold water
against our young skin.

The river of my childhood was not one
of these. It was a slithering trail of
clear cold water that wound through
the north land of Ironwood
where I would catch my first fish
and return it, bloodied, vigorous, even
grateful, to be caught again
later, unable to resist the temptation
of my bait, unable to believe
in the sport of children.

In the darker pools of that river, under
the road, leeches sucked my belly fat,
bruising it purple, and the snapping turtle
lurked, threatening to capture limbs if I
failed to fear it. I never did.

One hot August morning at the edge of my
childhood, I caught a small round fish,
and laid its flat body against a smooth rock.
I drove a sharpened stick through its flashing
scales and stripped it of guts and head.
Lighting a fire on the riverbank, I cooked
its flesh until it was white and ate it,
tasting smoke and steel and fear
in its soft pale meat.