Nine Bluegills

Gutted, scaled, rinsed with the water they swam in,
lie on my uncle’s dock from which they were caught.
Loon Lake is opaque with sunset, but in the dock’s shadow
crawdads on a blue sand bottom gather for a feast.

Tonight, fish in frothing butter will brown in cast iron pans,
but now is the hour of panfish striking a mayfly hatch
as plash by echoing plash, the lake hidden by willows
and pines becomes a reflection from which the moon

rises, “born like us to kiss the water,” my cousin Vera says.
Home from frosh year at Oberlin, summoned by loons 
for a night swim, she stands robed in a white towel, her wand,

a Hamm’s, foams in the glow of the kerosene lantern brought
to see my catch and to guide her back to the dock in the dark.
I’m fourteen, on my knees cleaning bluegills.