Snapper Hooks
Cracking backwards
through moss dollop pools,
heeding the push from
undercurrents and trapped air,
my father dips at the waist.
Sun rays, how they pass through water,
how they drag a brush over
a turtle’s shell and paint algae in ribbons
on the scutes of a stranger
my father lifts to show me.
Every turtle a snapping turtle –
carnivores, “spiked sons-a-bitches”
edged mob bosses of Shutes Branch,
pierced skin and porous sag –
my father cradles pliers.
As humidity threatens to collapse
over the bridge,
inching towards ragged carapaces
and wordless carp,
my father allows his wrist to twitch.