John Lorenzen

The scum-green waves towered

Over the jerky-covered deck

Of uncle Bart’s fishing vessel.

With each rock and shake, the bow

Would stare down at the stern

And the stern would size up the bow.

The determination of men steeped through

The air like the green tea of a man

In Kanagawa. No storm would topple

These anglers’ will. A rod genuflected

To the beast beneath the surface

As gnarled hands grasped the cork grip

And wrenched the white-eyed log from

Its rest. The bleak sky opened at the first

Sign of battle. Wild kicks ensued from the end

Of the line while the bottom of the lake churned.

The pescador’s graphene sword slashed

Upward and the beast was hauled into the air.