↑ Return to CONTENTS 2014

FRED BUIJN

1 | 2

River Confessions

 

I first

pull the zip across,

gently,

lift the carbon-fibre rods

out, and untie.

Rub the greasy wax onto the tips

of my fingers, smearing the joints

to seal them,

squeeze the pieces together,

twist and

set.

 

The reel,

unpacked, locked into the cork

and screwed

hard.

The green fluorescent line pushed

through the steel guides,

all the way

to the top.

The spool of Maxima Ultragreen nylon,

threaded carefully through the eyes,

twist,

and then again,

the knot and lure,

set,

fast.

 

The old ritual,

completed in mumbled silence,

the Tongariro,

a beaded, black necklace,

my confessional, lover, priest,

kneeling,

in the shadowed dawn.

 

The wind begins to lift,

as I stumble at her edge,

her bruised, obsidian skin,

stone-boulder cold

to the touch.

The fat-eel river,

at last,

shows her belly.

 

You feel like a mountain,

river,

and I,

in the shallows of your roar,

throw my cast.

 

Contents | Previous Author | Next Author | About this Author

Permanent link to this article: http://4thfloorjournal.co.nz/past-issues/contents-2014/fred-buijn-river-confessions/