We hope for fish, Dad and me, we

smell of sunscreen and marine diesel

and the kelp-fishy smell of lake. 

I try to keep the too-big ballcap on my head

and the sweat from my eyes

as I lean over the rail hunting

the green-yellow bodies, the spiky fins

vegetal, like the water.

Walleye like the bottom, Dad says

flicking a Marlboro stub over the side

I nod as if I already know. 

Not too many mayflies, Dad says.

I like that. 

I hate the sick-sweet smell of them

the bulge-beady eyes,

and how they land so soft you never know

until they’re already on your skin. 

Dad likes that too, he says—

fish don’t chase bait when they got enough to eat.

The boat rocks with the water

and with Dad rearranging rods and reels

and the cheap plastic Bucket O’ Drowning Worms

we got hold of at the Happy Hooker

along with Marlboro Golds, Miller Lite, and Faygo Redpop.

I try to be helpful by staying put, mouth shut. 

Hot and dry, no wind to speak of

We spent all winter hoping for a day like this one

gleaming and pristine

a day the old boat deserved. 

For months, Dad sanded and smoked and varnished and drank

I stood nearby, marveling at the long perfect brushstrokes

trying hard not to cough. 

We hoped for fish. 

Now that it’s here

And the water under the hull isn’t imagined

but blue-green and earthy on my tongue like a string bean

and I hear the squeak-groan of the styrofoam cooler

and the shake-slosh of the ice inside it

I’m not so sure.

I lift a worm from the Bucket

and wonder if I have to spear him, if I could spare him.

If drowning might be a kinder death.

See, Dad, how he hangs onto the hook?

Wraps himself around it, like it’s totally natural?

But we hope for fish,

the smells of fryer oil and mayonnaise

and the absent smell of the lemon

which we always forget at the store. 

Dad says nothing.

Wraps his rough-hard hand around my soft-little one

takes the squirming thing and spears it

twice for good measure

before plunking the baited hook in the water.

He hands me the reel, too heavy for its size.

By the time I am done thinking

he spared me murder in the first degree. 

I don’t even really like fish

the way they flake apart under the fork

how they don’t taste specific

I’m afraid of all the little bones. 

If we catch anything, that’ll be supper.

If we don’t, I won’t have to kill more worms

Face the flailing walleye as they surface

fear in their too-big alien eyes

Pull hooks from gape-gasping mouths

plunge my hands into the icy Coleman

and bury their scale-slick bodies. 

We hope for fish.

But if there’s no fish,

I hope to spend the afternoon

Feeling the warm, gentle rock of the water

Listening to Cat Stevens on the radio

tipping back can after can of sun-warmed Redpop 

just like Dad.