Turn
A bright-hot morning; me and Daddy; a fever-cloud of
glassy-eyed iridescent flies. Up ahead, invisible heat-devils
waver over our (brownbottle) boomerang of river; our
rank-pink curves of bait-bucket chicken-neck marinate, and
jellify, and stew.
We are walking the oyster-shell zig-path from my
blood-home to the water, three hundred and eleven
crunch-steps from back door to dock. This is Daddy's day off,
our day for blue-crabbing. That neon hum ...