Herring Run
No one will convince me the sky
was ever cloudy over South River
those late April afternoons when
Grandpa and I went to the stone bridge
to witness herring battle swift currents,
the run so dense I imagined I could walk
upstream on a trail of blue-black backs.
Grandpa would hold my legs as I stretched
flat on my stomach and plucked fish
from the commotion. He said it was okay
to admire for a moment, but I had to
let them go on their way, something about
Lake Massapoag and making more herring.
The same Lake Massapoag where decades
later I swim during summer heatwaves.
Sometimes I wish I could dive as deep
as I used to, out near the island, that
I could open my eyes and search
for brilliant silver flashes. I’d like
to say even one would be enough,
down there in the dark water.
Priceless
Grandpa used to promise me a nickel
for every arrowhead I found on our walks
to Willard Creek, where summer afternoons
we fished for lunker hornpout. Of course,
what I discovered was mostly random
chunks of flint and quartz. He knew
and I knew. The trick was to locate the flat,
pointy ones with sharp edges. Those natural
approximations of ancient ingenuity
were still worth a penny and I could save
for baseball cards. I needed Carlton Fisk.
One time I kicked up a small round piece
of petrified wood, smooth, dark red
with a perfect pinkish circle in the center.
A legitimate fossil, Grandpa said. How
much? I asked. It’s priceless, he said. But
later, while cornmeal-coated hornpout filets
sizzled on the grill, he gave me a polished
Kennedy silver half dollar. Just because.
Decent Eating
I know what we caught wasn’t what
he was hoping for, wasn’t the gape-
mouthed bass he'd seen bend a rod
almost to the snapping point on
the Saturday afternoon TV fishing
show. And I was embarrassed by
the half dozen bluegills dangling
limp on the stringer as we walked
up the driveway to his house. But
I figured at least I’d teach Johnny
Phillips the proper way to clean fish,
as if I knew. I was still a teen, only
a couple years his senior. I had to
hide my squeamishness at the blood
and tiny intestines filled with a stew
of half-digested insects. In any case,
it was just me and Johnny that day,
his parents sleeping it off again, two
empty Absolut bottles fractured on
the linoleum floor. A little cornmeal,
a sprinkle of salt, some pepper, lots
of butter, and admittedly the sizzle
in the pan was satisfying. I tried
one bite, wasn’t impressed. Though
Johnny finished all of his then mine,
said, You know, it's pretty decent eating
Richard Jordan’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Southern Poetry Review, Terrain, Cider Press Review, Connecticut River Review, Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, South Florida Poetry Journal and elsewhere. His debut chapbook, The Squannacook at Dawn, won first place in the 2023 Poetry Box Chapbook Contest. He serves as an Associate Editor for Thimble Literary Magazine.
January House Literary Journal 
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