Fishing for Shad
By Kate Rushin
For Jack Howard
I don’t know where I belong
but I know I don’t belong here.
I don’t know much
but I know what is right.
I don’t have much
but I have myself.
I’m not a man yet
but I’m not a child.
I don’t want much
but I want more than this.
I don’t belong to Mather,
I belong to God.
My mother told me
never to forget.
I don’t have money
but I have good sense.
The Mathers think they can buy me
and pass me along
like a bushel of oysters,
or a clock.
They want to dry me out
and grind me up,
scatter me across their fields
like good-for-nothing-else shad.
They hate this boney fish.
They think it stinks.
They salt it up in barrels,
ship it to the West Indies,
feed it to people
they brand slaves.
I say there are no slaves
in this house.
I’m going to catch shad with my friend Joe.
He taught me how to plank it.
I’m slipping out tonight.
Going to see my mother.
She knows what to do with
shad and shad roe.
Some people don’t know
good eating when they see it.
There are good folks here—
family and friends
gather around this table.
Notes:
This poem is from “The Witness Stones Project” portfolio that appeared in the November 2021 issue. The authors write about the series and the collaborative process here.
Source:
Poetry
(November 2021)
