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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.
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