Symbiosis Poem by L C Vieira

Late on these summer nights,
I ask you
to tell me again
of your youthful stealth
crossing the woods,
a sliver of moon your guide,
silently guiding you
through the golf course
to the creek,
dark clothes
hiding you
soaked
beneath the reeds.

Did you really breathe through a straw,
a bag half-full of golf balls
weighing down your belt?
Even so, you jumped back
when it was not a ball sometimes
your fingers touched -
the solid leather
of a turtle.

SNAP!

Other times those same confident fingers
glided through the murky water
to the dregs
of the bottom
to a
catfish -
your thumb in its mouth,
three fingers under chin
lifting him, tossing him to shore.

'Be careful, ' you caution,
'of the spikes on the dorsal fins,
serrated, like bee's barb.'
You show me with my hands,
'about this long.'

How long?
(as if I'm ever going to do that)

You ate the catfish

and sold the golf balls back to
the same lousy golfers
along the edges of the creek,
where they'd drive them back in
again
the next day.

I examine your fingers, those same hands
that still discover me
and smile to remember again
how much I appreciate
your symbiotic relationships.

July 10,2012