The Fly Fisherman’s Daughter
Karen J. Weyant

Somewhere in the Susquehanna, a lure
twirls, wrapped in fast current
and a thin strand of her hair.
For good luck, explained her father,
with a sharp pluck, fingers so fast
she never felt the tug. While other girls
measured their growth with notches
in the doorway, she stood next to his waders,
waiting to be old enough, imagining
black marks on thick rubber.  Wearing
a worn vest that fell past her knees,
and a baseball cap lined with worn flies,
she shaded her eyes, practiced
in the backyard, overgrown grass rippling
like water, dandelions white like stones
rubbed raw by the river.  She was sure
she could be just like him, tired stick
with string, swinging, cutting the air into slices.


From Issue 2, Number 1


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