Do you confuse between what’s wrong and right?
I did first when I was eight and a half:
My grandpa’s boat through the great lake did part
water into two as the outboard knifed,
Cut through deep blue with threaded prawns on spikes;
Scrubbed with lemon our fingers in the dark
of sand and the stench of bait in the yard —
stuck under cuticles into the night.
The fish we caught were dead when the moon lit,
I said sorry for being scared to pull
from twitching lips the bloodied hooks they’d bit,
And he, despite the chemo ate ‘til full
Before turning on his stool to posit:
‘Don’t say sorry, you’re too young to be cruel.’