Fishing From A Wheelchair

Fishing from a wheelchair

starts like I am just lazy:

seated, a beer against the wheel,

snapping the rod sky

ward with the great wings

of my back alone, its fly

flies out across the waters,

and in the arc, the splash,

the waiting, I am as others,

as I was before—the

bite changes everything.

The rod bows, my brakes

slip, I wonder: will I land

the trout or will he water me?

Longneck turned and foaming,

toes flippered blindly into hooks—

a bit to pay for later—I

haul my brother ashore to die

out in my chair’s bucket. I know:

I am his crash.