V. 2, #7: April 3, 2013

The smell of motor oil still makes me think
of fish. My uncles pulling up the drive
with river water pouring out the back
of that flat, dented boat they always took
to check their trot lines; then they'd lug the chest
of bluegill bream and channel cat on ice
into the dingy, cinder-block garage

Where old petroleum mixed with the stink
of doomed aquatic creatures, still alive,
mouths gaping as in shock. The men would smack
the catfish with a mallet. Wrenches shook
on pegboard, vicious pliers bit down to wrest
the skin from flesh. The bream they'd scale and slice,
while I crouched down beside the bench to watch.