Out on the Ice

There’s one set of tracks
goin’ out on the lake from here.
Take those and you’ll find him.
It hasn’t snowed since he went.

The man holds a large fish decoy.
He moves stiffly above the new-cut hole.
I’m here to see how ice fishing works. I want
to experience it, beyond river fishing holes,
beyond the fancy shacks with TVs.
But now in this pale, purpling world
seeing him alone, I’m afraid.
My forehead aches with cold.
I’m thinking: plunge. snapped line.
cracked ice. harpoon.

The fisherman places the confidence decoy
—a muskie—lets it sink a little and secures it.
He adds his new Red and White,
with the bright yellow eye.
I’m thinking: cod jigging. fish jokes.
strings. Ahab.

The man beckons me closer,
pinches the line and bounces it.
I take hold and copy him.
In the water, the little decoy begins to circle.
The man taps the shaft of the ice spear.
I reach for it and we begin to fish.


His eyes go soft, his breath slows.
He enters a solitude linked to
miles of black water.

After the ice hole is cut
it’s impossible to pretend
I’m anywhere other than down there.
And when I rise to the surface,
lungs pierced by my first breath,
smiling like Jonah, I set up a table
selling weighted fish with names like
peace on earth decoy, logos decoy.

But then, you know fish stories…