The old men laughed;
flounder are flat
and brown.
He was small
and nothing special—
not a flounder.
But they didn’t let him go.
They ground up my catch
into a pink paste, spotted
with specks of broken bone.
We threw the pieces off the boat
to chum the water.
LOYOLA
BLAKEFIELD
LITARTMAG
2014
20
Sh Stuff My Dad Says
Ian Cumberpatch
He looks like me.
My old man revels
in our separate ways.
Not listening—
—just waiting
for a pause so I could unleash
the silence
I whetted as he droned on.
Abandon me, father,
far from home.