​At Least 18 Photos of Fish, by P. D. Edgar

Photos from a family scrapbook of the author.

​At Least 18 Photos of Fish 

             After another day  
of fishing at the house  
on Gilbert Lake, 
(the one in Wild Rose,  
not the one in West Bend) 
Carl returns to the cabin 
with his small red cooler 
As he comes into the house,  
Norma smells him— not sweat 
but the slick wet smell of fresh fish
             He retrieves the camera, 
its one glassy eye open  
to capturing the abundance in sepia
to offset the bluish fluorescent light,
from the pantry and sets it on the counter
next to the heavy cooler, which he opens
Carl removes the empty milk carton
(makes you big and strong, 
so that you don’t wear out  
catching fish after fish, 
except it sloshed in his stomach 
as he stepped out of the boat 
and walked uneven up to the cabin) 
              This is 1983. There are maybe 27 fish
Then, he overturns the cooler 
into the porcelain sink 
the fish jump for the last time 
like skipping stones, sick green body pearls
slipping iridescent into the basin 
with oily, sludgy melted ice 
which drains beneath them 
               Eyes kissing eyes 
glassy cataract stares  
of a pescatarian slaughter 
Carl checks how many shots 
are left on the roll of film  
               Good— there’s enough 
Using a fresh black sharpie 
Norma has prepared the placard 
for him to prop on top 
of the smooth sheening keratin 
sharp fins cutting at one another
                His visitor’s name, not his 
Russel has finished mooring the boat,
has already removed his coveralls,
and has already gone to shower 
The denim hangs over the lip  
of the the hamper under the sink 
                The room is quiet 
the fish suffocated hours ago 
Norma can’t prepare dinner 
until the filets are cut 
but the bowls of flour and egg wash
are already on the counter, waiting
He feels starved.  
                Carl turns on the flash  
and takes two pictures 
just in case — last year,  
some of the film had corroded 
and he lost count of June’s catches
            This is 1985. There are maybe 50 fish
They almost overflow the sink this time 
President Reagan has been reelected
                Carl puts the camera away 
and takes out the filet knife 
He scales it first 
then guts the cold fish  
their white muscle sliced 
to drop red, glinting organs 
into the barrel 
                  Ever since he sold the farm  
in West Bend and moved to Wild Rose 
this has stopped feeling like a chore
what a freedom this is  
to catch fish, to beat the lake 
(and this average he calculated himself)
113.75 fish each year 
what a freedom, indeed

P. D. Edgar 

P.D. grew up between central Florida and Managua, Nicaragua. His poetry exists at the crossroads of identity and spirituality on the landscape of media and the environment. He currently pursues masters' in Journalism and Media Studies and Creative Writing at the University of Alabama, and hopes to one day found a community bookstore. He may be found online @PDEdgar30.