ANGLER

BONNIE RAE WALKER

 
 

In her hands,
an empty Fresca
bottle glints, blinks,
dangling from her slow,
swinging arm –
 
glass to play against
the mouth, lucent
to smile over.
 
She tramps alone
across cat’s eyes
down sun-softened
coal tar pitch.
 
A crust of brine
coats collar and cuff.
She wipes at tear tracks
below squinting lashes.
 
It is a time of
low motion,
of lethargy
brought by July heat.
 
Her hips sway gentle
undulations over
dust coated Jellies.
 
A bleached cinder block
atoll slouches away from
the afternoon, once a grocer,
now only an almost-structure.
 
She stares through
fronds of rebar
at its abandoned interior.
Inside squat lawn chairs,
cigarette boxes, empty.
 
Its usual inhabitants
loll indoors, lie basking
before oscillating fans,
predation forgotten.
 
Hissing, she hurls her lure
and it explodes like a star.
 
She turns back toward home,
the heat and silence
ringing in her ears,
the fizz in her stomach
having already begun to boil.

 

 
 

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