smoking pot and catching fish

By Arja Kumar. Published on April 6, 2023.

the man’s ponytail went down to his hips

he dragged a pole above his head

reaching the sun

arm yearning 

to catch

where his car stood by the waterfall

smelled like pot 

still half a mile away i am walking

and it still smells like pot

wasn’t he supposed to be at work

it was 2 o’clock

wherever hires men with baggy navy 

pants and matching hoodie, and ponytail

swinging between his legs

he lit a pinecone on fire

come evening

he smoked a pinecone,

a branch of fir

in the snow, he bled 

incessantly 

denial|escape is no answer

i watched him as if he were my own

fantasy

NO SWIMMING

NO DIVING

but he did anyways 

in that cold April stream, 

50 degrees

barely spring 

the sign reading: rainbow trout will be released into water soon

oh la la la la la i’m trout fishing in America!

he was a rainbow trout himself

bold and with not one, 

but two hearts

he goes in the portapotty 

and never comes out

another old midwestern man in a flannel

squat down to piss in public 

or pick up his cur’s poop

the dogs greeted each other on the bridge

nuzzled noses

they leaped the iron for fish

owners, ballistic 

calling the cops

knowing not what to do

the answer –

was to dive forth in and swim

take a leap of faith, an exodus of risk

but the midwestern men were not willing

God willing only,

to fear, 

to cower

Arja Kumar is the Founder and Editor of Revolver Lit Mag. She lives in the Midwest and writes sometimes.