Between Long Beach and Catalina             	My father tied a harness                            	around my waist so I could                                            	reel inthe dorado. I watched his steady hands,             	boat and fishing pole see-sawing                            	in his sunglasses,                                            	like a filmin fast forward, as scales splattered             	the deck, jewels at my feet –                            	shins splashed with salt,                                            	blood and victory.I never felt more loved than when I’d find             	a swordfish a quarter mile out                            	or hook a tuna       	                                            	on my own.In his afternoon cloud             	of diesel, scotch and cigarettes,                            	he’d show me off                                            	to his friends,a pretty girl who could land a fish.  I Didn’t Want To The dog’s nails click onConcrete like a mouse             	Scurrying behind            	The fridge. The trash-shoot Won’t open. Its mouthBlocked by the neighbor’s             	Doormat. I shove wine            	Bottles and soda Cans down the metalChute. They boomerang             	And bang. No wonder            	I let him fuck me Since I was desperateTo escape the hall             	That stinks of garbage            	Before cleaning day. Last night I didn’tWant to, but I moved             	My body against            	Him, his face above     	 Mine, erasing hoursIn wrinkled linen.  What We Do With Our Hands He invites me in, his feet bare on the coldtile. In a Saturday fog, we sit across a table. He is a forest at midnight, birdwings, the crybefore an avalanche, pull of the moon. He is            	wind, the silence of space, the thirstof cactus, hunger of wildfire. He moves to my side, his leg pressing mine.My awkward arm around his shoulder. Words stay in the lines on his face,welled up, sunken. And when morning purples the low mountains apart from greyclouds in a swath, it’s like that moment                             	before a storm, the sky hovering like a truce.  Cynthia Good is an award-winning author, journalist, and TV news anchor. She has written six books including Vaccinating Your Child, which won the Georgia Author of the Year award. She has launched two magazines, Atlanta Woman and the nationally distributed PINK magazine for women in business. Cynthia’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in journals including Main Street Rag, The RavensPerch, Maudlin House, Awakenings, Reed Magazine, Bridgewater International Poetry Festival, Outrider Press, Pink Panther Magazine and Terminus Magazine, among others.