Poetry

by Kelly Whiddon

Bear Grylls Can Suck It

My husband is a hero. Tonight

we lounge on a dock, and he fishes

two skinny bream out of water

like a resurrection in the fernbrake,

a spout from Stygian depths,

the douse and shovel of water and blood,

smell of mud and mackerel,

sweat of the gator, climax of machismo

like the Colossus fucking a stag.

Nothing shimmers like scales

in twilight, and the thrust of the kill

spills a smile onto his face—the smile

of a boy discovering his penis. I can tell

what he’s thinking before he speaks:

Bear Grylls can suck it.

Later, he beams by his frying pan

while a vespertine chorus of crickets

belts his walk-up anthem, and I savor

the piddling fish in my mouth, thinking

paladin, thinking Valhalla, thinking

of Bear—somewhere on a craggy mesa

starting fire with his hands.

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