Poems by Kate Wylie

Tuesday Mornings Together on the Buffalo

by Kate Wylie

From Canary Summer 2021

Kate lives in the Maline Creek-Mississippi River watershed. She spends time in both Missouri and Arkansas River valleys and finds great joy in tending to her urban garden.

We stand on either side of the river with an
end of rope in hand and pull to reveal the
slackened trotline, three fish dangling from
old curved hooks, a waterlogged chip bag
caught on another. Grandfather gestures to
let the line down; he’ll wade in to get it.
The rope goes limp through my hands and
slowly water rises around him, first
rubber-clad shins, then calves, and finally
thighs. He pushes against the undertow,
struggling toward the deepest deep, the
middle of middles, where the plastic bag
bobs on the surface, bending sunlight into
his eyes. Every summer, I grow more
afraid that he’ll be swept away one day
when the river grows unnerved by our
incessant need for sustenance. But today,
like all others before, he gathers fish in the
basket, pockets the plastic bag and rejoins
me on the other side, muddy water
retreating from the tops of his waders.