In the Belly of the Catfish

I’m not sure how else to say it. My father has a catfish head
on a hook-nail on a post in the middle of his body shop. A catfish

head. Translucent with emptiness. Some kind of luck he made—
a guardian at the gate of Bondo, crescent wrenches, blast sanders,

red Craftsman tool chests.     My friends say that if they had to hold
a catfish—though many of them have never had to hold a catfish— 

they would do so “carefully,” “around the belly,” “firmly,”
“with fingers nestled just under the head” of the catfish. 

My father once said Don’t touch the whiskers. They’ll sting
the shit outcha. A tale passed like the whip-quiet of cane-pole cast.

the shit outcha. A tale passed like the whipThis poem is not a tutorial
on using the hand as a hook. It’s not a how-to-teach-a-man to snatch fish

from their families. Which reminds me of the time I lost my father—
I mean, I remember the summer. I was eight & I lost my father’s catfish.

I’m saying, here are some fun facts about catfish:

1. June 25th is National Catfish Day.
2. One catfish can lay up to 4,000 eggs a year per pound of body weight. 
3. Catfish have over 27,000 taste buds all over their bodies,
   but mostly concentrated in their whiskers. 
4. There’s tales from India about a man-eating catfish.

If there were a portrait of my father from any summer Saturday
night, it could be titled Community Event: Men Eating Catfish—

Cornmeal fried. White bread. Heinz. Tabasco. A side of salad
—the kind from out the bag—some crinkle cuts, heavy salt. “Green Onions” 

by Booker T & the MGs thrumming through an assortment of beer bottles
& tobacco smoke. Bones cleaned.        I found my father in the belly of a catfish.

I mean this past summer we, who are still alive, were in Gulfport, full-bellied
and a memory of my father gutted my mother’s platter of catfish. 

I’m saying, I accidentally moved the stringer—fed through ten sets of gills,
plugged into the firm of the muddy bank. The ones that got back home were lucky. 

I’m saying, after Pops baited both our hooks, he taught me how to let go
my thumb from the aluminum reel to far arc out a cast. I’m saying, my father

is a body, a backboned memory constellated by feed pellets on the face
of a man-made lake. My father is the pulse of blood welling the tip of my father’s

finger pricked by the hook he baited for just one more cast before dark catches    
us too far from home. I’m saying my father is a belly, a chest, hands. My father,

delighted, hooked his fingers through the belly of stink bait—bulbed it firmly
around fishhooks to teach his son how to someday live while holding a catfish.