Jack Campbell

Fish Story

A silent elder, who sits 
at the far end of the table,
after listening to the story
about girl scouts flipping a canoe
on the Sweetwater River,
looks at me, holds hands eighteen inches
apart. In between the lined palms
and twitching fingers, 
rests an imaginary shape
once capable of lightning.
Lips can no longer name which stream
flows in her mind, nor on which bend
the catch was finally beached.
Her ham splotched face, beckoning eyes,
and dangling silver earrings
are enough bait for me to go back
with her into deeper water.