At opposite ends of the boat, we’re rocked
by waves and the wake of other
fishermen.  My husband, after tying flies
for months, talks about his lines
and leaders, wigglers and bunny divers,
arranges his fly box, adjusts his creel.

When seas allow, I hold my tray
of embroidery skeins on my knees,
a rainbow of color in floss and ribbon
for flowers and foliage in fishbone
and fly stitches.  I add dragonflies,
satin bees, landscape of life on linen,
straight stitches for grass, taut 
in a wooden hoop, raise my gaze
to sea grape and mangrove shore.

When he hooks one, he shouts, startles
me out of the blue lines I follow with care.
I can’t watch him, his gaff and disgorger,
the staring eyes.  When gills go pink
I lose my breath, force my stare
to the horizon, boundary
separating sea and sky.

My heart threads out to his
across air turning blue
in fading light.  His heart reels out
to snapper and bonefish and he curses
a Great Blue Heron wading
where he wants to go.

The last time I’ll see him, he’s on the porch
of his hundred-year-old house, gray wood rotting,
splintered chairs. I sit upwind of his cigarette.

His skin has a yellow tinge, his ankles white
and swollen, veins like a blue tattoo,
hair thin, face hanging.

We sit quietly, only the sound of the creek below,
rushing toward Forgetful Lake. I look at him
and remember when he laughed and kissed me,

we were teens, all of it dangerous, forbidden,
first man to touch me, blood rushing,
first hard loving.

      			   	I kiss his forehead,
tell him to take care of himself.  We both know it’s
too late. His liver is hardened; he’s bleeding out.