When I was fourteen, when
July burned the world flat and
summer vacation began to fossilize,
a boy, Robert, whom
I had liked from science class,
appeared at my front door, holding
a string of freshly caught
catfish and gave them
to me. Behind him,
out on the street, his father
waited in an idling truck.
Awkward thanks, a smile,
some talk and then
I closed the door.
Held the string up, gazed at this
smooth, dead, silvered gift
of first love. Toothless,
whiskered, bottom-feeder. Nothing
could have meant more.
Dianne Oberhansly is a multi-genre writer and a Flannery O’Connor prize winner. She lives in Ashland, Oregon where she is dedicated to the slow food movement, walking, and Arts education.
