IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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GRABBING

Ronald Crowe

With jeans rolled to skinny knees we flailed the creek to reddish milk, driving small fish to hiding and pursued, reaching after them into holes and crevices along the overhanging bank and rocky bottom—“grabbing,” those Georgia boys called it—throwing out struggling prey upon the grass to gasp out short lives; and in midstream I squatted upon an island rock and reaching down with tingling fingers felt beneath a sudden writhing hoard—a treasure trove of finny movement—and to better grasp my quarry, sank to tender knees for a longer reach, when he lashed the surface with a jawsprung cottonmouth agape to fan my cheek, and snaked away in Angry esses down to quieter waters, leaving in his wake iced skin frozen to the rock—a repentant statue with hammering heart and pin-pricked soles.

 
 
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