The Fisherman in Me

At age six, I was taught
to fillet bluegill
by my grandfather,
a tobacco farming Baptist
minister who guided
the knife with one hand
on top of my own,
patient, as though
he were pointing
out constellations
in the hot, dark belly.

**

Here Is the Church

We’ve all built it, the knuckled roof,
the double index of the steeple,
the jointed doors of our thumbs.

Today, my grandmother imagines me at seven,
braids her fingers in the familiar gesture,
and the veined backs of her hands
become stained glass windows.

She used to sing alto in the pew beside me,
keeping the creased hymnal open in her lap,
but never actually looking at it.

The hem of her slip would blink white
if she crossed or uncrossed her legs,
and that’s just about the most intimate side
that anyone ever saw of her.

But now, the doors of her temple are open to all,
and without prompting, she reveals the congregation
of her fingers, each nail a different shade,
like ladies in their Sunday hats.