For my daughters
Let me teach you how to fish, so your lot won’t be
few and hungry. Let me feed you with my waning gut
rather than a hard-nailed fist, so your launches will be
heart-triumphant. Let me show you that magic exists,
and it’s neither spurred by the starving flesh, some wand
of plea nor a well-trained will. Your grips may soften,
your lines may deepen, but all that chills won’t rock
your boat. None caught all night will still spell
Hope. I’m telling you, little fires fly as soon as you
Row
Straight to the swell, a few breaths past the charmless
shore. Expire your qualms to the cheerless hour and release
your nets regardless, right when your old Ma’s face closes
in eclipse. Cast full steam to
the Master of waters, the way He dove
through the fatal abyss and rises to the highest
order in sweeping triumph. Go at His heart-nailed
horizons as He stirs some thousand portion out of what
little you eat, setting your freezing soul ablaze to bring
in shoals
Of every kind, all at once, within a single throw.