an empty net.

when you're seven you
spend a week fishing for
crayfish in the harbor.
it's the promise of boiling them
later, in butter that keeps
you lying on the hot wood
of the dock. "I got one!" your
cousins cry and you jump
from your stomach, breaking
the rule of not-running near
the boats just this once, to see.
in bare feet, you're more likely to catch
splinters than your net a
swimmer, but you keep scooping
the mesh in and out of the
murky water. the day slips
past, darting from the sun's travel
like the minnows hiding in
the shadows and you spend half
of it trying to avoid tripping
the rest of the cabiners. they go out to
catch a fish perpetually growing
from spinning lines, a story
more tangled than the poles sitting
on the side of grandma's cabin.
when you're seven you eat crayfish with
your fingers and collect
freckles like lucky stones from
sprawling in the sun all day, and
promise yourself each summer
will stay the same.