BIG BLUE
by Sandra Anfang
My husband's parents dubbed him Big Blue,
counted on his regularity
like the morning paper's slap against the screen door.
As he gutted large-mouth bass at the outdoor sink
Bob greeted the heron gliding in on silent wings
to its post where the grass sloped down to kiss the sea.
We unloaded the boat,
handed up our measly string of fish.
Blue watched with solemn eye,
mind married to his motive.
He wore a cornflower coat
with a hint of slate rubbed into the feathers,
the most brilliant male I'd ever known,
poised on one leg, head cocked, mouth agape,
awaiting the first of many prizes
like a puppy after training.
Bob would perform his Ginsu magic,
a ritual of entrails and tails.
Damned if that bird didn't snatch them from mid-air,
an expert juggler who never missed a pitch.
Bob loved him like a prodigal son.
Maybe it was his wildness, his utter sense of purpose,
the one he and the wife lost years ago
to Barcaloungers and five-o-clock martinis.
She grew up on a Kentucky dairy.
The photo with a painted backdrop’s all that remains:
Brother's rifle laid across his knee,
hand cradling it like a lover,
Mother with her bible,
children splayed like poker hands along the picket fence.
Gyroscope Review - !15