Eight years old on the Puget Sound fishing for flounder,
up out came an enormous,
one could only call a
spotted great white
I fell backward in the boat crying. Who did this?
Why? He flopped
there, seconds from death,
in the bottom of the white splintered boat, gills reaching
for water, fingering the air
I was happier before we
When the flounder quieted and
was unhooked, he went back in the water,
but didn’t swim away. Papí looked like a stack of sad Christmases,
he was flying back for work in seven hours,
and I could only cry because I loved him so.