Trout
Nails in teeth, I scampered
over roofs, defying a steep
pitch, alive in that strange
intelligence for roosting.
Flightless, I slid one day,
latched onto a vent, then
descended and took a breath
I was young. I should have
let a friend teach me to fish,
let the quiet widen like a stream
where a trout rises to a fly,
is snagged, caught, and released,
becoming, in a flip, light.
All along, I tried to inhabit
the air and utter short
bursts of sound. What
can be seen from such places
and what, there, can be said?
When rain comes, nailguns
and hammers relent, obey
the storm’s slick moment–
rows left unfinished, roofboards
tarped, waiting, lucent.
About the Author: Michael Lauchlan has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, and Lake Effect. His next collection is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press.
Image Credit: Winslow Homer “Leaping Trout” (1889) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 