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Tackle Box
Double hinged with a broken handle
the tackle box opens wide.
Two layers of partitioned trays.
Whiffs of stale 3-in-1 oil escape.
A few granules of dried mud from some lake,
probably Bull Shoals, lie in the bottom
along with a tangle of leaders and swivels.
I reach for a Heddon Tiny Torpedo,
the treble hook on its tail missing.
Some Rooster Tails fill a tray.
They are small and weightless as time.
Spoon lures lie dulled, like old medallions.
A red-and-white Lazy Ike, chipped down one side,
still warm with memory:
My grandfather, his hands raw and nicked,
returning the lure to its place like it was something holy.
The aroma of a cheap cigar as he leans-in
to teach me how to tie a proper knot.
So much silence in those mornings.
Just the water and the sound it makes
when it laps against the stones on the shore.
The lake is smaller now and the hills are,
well, there are no hills,
but a breeze still stirs the surface of the water.
For a moment I forget that I am older.
It never was about the fish,
though they mattered at the time.
Once, minnows in a pail had purpose.
Now, I don’t bother with them.
Rather, to hold a relic up to the sun
and see flecks of glitter shining
from so far away, from so long ago.
To watch the translucent arc of a cast
floating into the sun’s fiery haze
while it resurrects voices.
I try never to call the past holy,
or memory a prayer, but sometimes
I kneel nonetheless. – James Green
James Green has published six poetry chapbooks, and his poems have been included in literary journals in Ireland, the UK, and the USA. In addition, he and his co-translator, Ei Ei Tin, have published their translation of the Myanmar poet Maung Seir Win in a volume titled Lin Lae Lae La. He divides his time between his home in Muncie, Indiana, and Mae Hong Son, Thailand, where he volunteers as an education consultant for the Jesuit Refugee Service. His website is: www.jamesgreenpoetry.net.