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You dove for your father’s fishing pole
after it fell into the lake. I’d propped it
on the railing when you asked me to grab
two more beers from the cooler. The whole lake
was a moon that night with East Texas winds
shimmering the water. We measured time
by tocks of the bobbers, dips per second,
and listened to the waves close on the dock.
The last one snagged your father’s pole. It floated
for two bobs, a bruise on the white meat of the moon,
before it seeped below. You stripped and dove
but the pole had already settled into hydrilla nests
and lake muck that gritted beneath your nails
when you dug into the bed. Waxy stems sprouted
through the water’s surface as you pulled them
in your search. You were under for ten bobs,
fifteen, thirty, cold water needling your bare skin,
underwear plastered thin to your thighs. Bubbles broke
when you came up after forty-five bobs, still
empty handed. I called for you. I wanted you
to abandon your search for your father’s pole.
I was missing our time together even if I knew
it was for selfish reasons. I casted empties
because I wanted more time. Aluminum lids
shone around your head. The faint braille
of goosebumps rose on your neck and arms
and legs as you dove back down, the faint click
of your feet kicking you deep. I waited alone
on the dock, counting fifty bobs, sixty, sixty-five,
and then the cans filled up and they sunk, too.