Jack's a Natural Angler

There is a man named
Jack K Williams who prefers
to be called Martin in public cause
my writing's too pubic and Jack says
he likes to maintain a low profile, goes to church

on Sundays and he never reads wham bams
except for mine, he listens
for the flow, he knows how to swim
through all my words, cautions me about
murky waters and shows me where,
how the water runs so clear and deep that

if you stare straight through
you can see speckled pebbles and
learn rock bottom can’t be
all bad. As for Jack, he
doesn't need goggles, doesn't strap fins
to his feet so's to wind his way

between streaming words, sometimes floating free,
sometimes with the wind in his hair
like Hemingway, he knows the geography
of words, understands questions, like
why do stars skim on clear water,

why does thunder make me laugh
and the sun cause shivers
to spiral up my spine, why
do the purest word shells
lie open and empty
on the shoreline in the morning.

I think that Jack must have
been born in the country still young
with unharnassed smells and sounds, where
words are still collected
in rain barrels, imagine Jack,

to stand naked in the moonlight,
straining for those distant rumblings,
knowing that fresh words will fall
in torrents. I would stand with my breath
hovering in my throat,

my tongue out to catch a drop, savoring
the taste of a word, some potent phrase,
before swallowing. I’d be full of glistening
gems, Jack, drenched, I would be
drenched with the sweetest tasting
words, fresh as first time lovers
of any age.

Jack knows about natural wonders,
he can stand and point where the water
is so clear that there is no separation
of surface and floor, he warns me
to be watchful of undertows that
swirl, continuously changing direction.

He knows, this man Jack, when I flaunt
my favorite four letter confections, that
I’m just a city kid in the country, or
a country kid in the city, either way
I’m an obvious misfit, while he’s
a natural angler,

and I’m just this softly smiling
sometimes tired woman at the end
of a long day coming home to someone
who reads my words somewhere
in the south. he says he’ll write

cunt to surprise me - I’m
going to wear white silk with
pearl buttons and nothing
underneath.



Copyright Janice Colman 2008