In my waders I feel big, rehearse what I’ll say
to you while fishing trash out of the marsh,
and after, sitting in the cordgrass, turning pods
until the seeds pop out, waiting for a sign
while garter snakes slip over our shoes.
Despite the gloves, you splintered your
hands with Japanese rose. You hold them
close to your face, mumble something
about your grandparents’ cattle and living
fences, then place them palm-up on my knees.