I am at a fishing lodge in Canada’s far far north
fly in
holy shit
here are the men
who will populate
stories
they will become uncles and brothers
maybe a father maybe not
and the women
all of them wonderfully strange
will become my aunts and sisters
not sure there’s a mother
but another group are circling
it’s a trout lake, muskie too
spring-fed
too clean for walleye
but I will go to Lake of the Wood for them
everybody agrees trout are too oily
but I say they are not too anything
except maybe too perfect
I catch and release
I can only kill in fiction
except walleye
grew up killing them
it’s a cinch
didn’t know there’d be wifi here
the password is the owner’s phone number
clever people
I know the bankers are bankers
and the lawyer’s obvious
the history teacher’s son whispered to me
as if he had to
that they drove to the other lake across the road
for walleye
they overfished and got caught
by conservation officers
the history teacher
couldn’t stand the shame
they left in the night
somebody said don’t get lost
the lawyer said
you can’t get lost if you’re not going anywhere
his smile charming charming charming
an outraged fisherman showed me all the reefs
red squares bleating on his phone
he accused the lake of not being honest about it
I am always looking for my father in these places
he circles
