Fisher Man at Eagle Lake, California

by Lara Gularte,
copyright 2008

Up to his thighs,
he pulls fish from the dark lake,
brings them to the light to die,
nothing slips away.
Some he jerks out of the shallows,
too small, so he throws them back.

Crazed for water,
big fish from the deep
wiggle and twist,
gulp air through their gills.

He cuts off heads,
splits them gullet to tail,
yanks out the life strings,
scrapes scales to skin.

Lemon, sliced down the center,
washed over palms,
between fingers, over wrists
to hide the smell of death.

He tosses the innards into the water.
What he leaves behind will meet the surface
like a bubble of air.
Like the jacket of the lost boy
last seen across the lake crying.

Lara Gularte

First published in Windfall, A Journal of Poetry of Place, Spring 2008.

In the woods at night

by Lara Gularte
copyright 2008

Shadows move in
light falls to the ground.
Colors fill up the darkness
clots of red, spasms of purple.
My eyesight dims.
Deer trail sinks into canyon.

When night comes alive
it hums, it crawls.
I can hear the deep dead turn,
see roots bulge up from the dirt.
Eyes shine on me
a wet nose touches my hand.

Unwinged, human
I want to save myself from danger
but with no sharp beak or claws
I can’t protect myself
from hungry raptors
a world that gets up on all fours.

In the open meadow
hooves find ground.
Over and over
animals knock on the earth,
leave no tracks.

I follow a thin moon
find new life
in the dry creek bed.
I move slowly over a log
my legs reborn,
my claws deep in the wood.

Lara Gularte
First published in Bitter Oleander, Spring 2008.