Fishing for Shad

For Jack Howard

I don’t know where I belong

but I know I don’t belong here.

I don’t know much

but I know what is right.

I don’t have much

but I have myself.

I’m not a man yet

but I’m not a child.

I don’t want much

but I want more than this.

I don’t belong to Mather,

I belong to God.

My mother told me

never to forget.

I don’t have money

but I have good sense.

The Mathers think they can buy me

and pass me along

like a bushel of oysters,

or a clock.

They want to dry me out

and grind me up,

scatter me across their fields

like good-for-nothing-else shad.

They hate this boney fish.

They think it stinks.

They salt it up in barrels,

ship it to the West Indies,

feed it to people

they brand slaves.

I say there are no slaves

in this house.

I’m going to catch shad with my friend Joe.

He taught me how to plank it.

I’m slipping out tonight.

Going to see my mother.

She knows what to do with

shad and shad roe.

Some people don’t know

good eating when they see it.

There are good folks here—

family and friends

gather around this table.

Notes:

This poem is from “The Witness Stones Project” portfolio that appeared in the November 2021 issue. The authors write about the series and the collaborative process here.

Source: Poetry (November 2021)