Pier

PIER

Was it here
35+ years ago
where a bunch of you went fishing
come to Coos Bay
to this pier that was still standing
then?

Dark Indian faces with fishing poles
heading out to both ends of the T and along the way
tossing your lines into the water
where a young me
watched, fascinated with the water below
and the height of me above it.

Did your lines dig into the rail
and create creases as you hauled in flounders
those strange and fascinating fish
whose eyes were on the same side of their heads.

I would stare into the buckets,
the fish looking back at me
their mouths opening with each breath
their cheeks cut to release the hook.

And you were there
somewhere
dad...
I don't remember you that much
but I remember that one Indian fella
whose name I forget
whom you stopped by to visit
in his apartment
on the West end of the Ross Island Bridge
not far from the water
blocks away from the Willamette River
some 30+ years ago.

For some reason
it is his face that I remember from there
and sadly,
not yours so much,
dad.
And were these stones there
these odd concrete pipes at the time
laughing at this goofy Indian boy
and these goofy Indian folks?

Were barnacles sticking
to wood stone and pier
discarded and forgotten
by the civilization that demanded them to die
so I could sit on this pier and watch you guys fish.

Which side of the T were you on, dad?

And I remember
back at grandma's in Reedsport
the flounders left in the bucket
in that weird hallway
that went from the kitchen
to the right
then between two rooms to the outside of the house.
Their,
on the rotting floors
and the smell of mold and depression
I watched those fish
still breathing...
still clinging to life.

I checked on them later,
and they were finished.
Many days later,
they were still in the bucket
waiting to be buried in the dirt
instead of our bellies.