on the banks of the rio grande

“A river that feeds a village is better than an ocean
that merely decorates an island.” ―Matshona Dhliwayo

that’s where the local barefoot boys
unearth fresh worms for bait
as fishermen, midst egret noise,
wait for the river’s spate
to trickle to a steady flow
before they toss torn nets
at chances—they suppose—below
might change vile epithets.

that’s where the bursting nets offload
the burden of their catch
as pent-up agonies explode
beneath the village watch.
fleet, broad-hipped vendors de-compose
trout, mullet, prawn, and eel
left naked of their fin-thin clothes,
scaled-down for sex appeal.

that‘s where the fish-fry fires flare
and orange-paint the trees
as drunk men loyalties forswear
to give their wives the squeeze.
bone dominoes compound the night
with ruse and sleight-of-hand;
tired fisher folk forget their plight
—for now, no reprimand.

that’s where the bamboo raftsmen park
when from the hills they come
—a nesting place for every lark
that would the down-tide roam.
when all the boys and fishermen
and nets and fish are gone,
the echo of the river’s yen
will find the amazon.

© Copyright 2020 August 31
by Clyve A. Bowen♫