Death's Portrait
by Chase Twitchell
I just caught myself in the mirror
with a look like one of my father’s,
a forward-leaning absorption,
greedy, thinking of itself.
I saw him animated in me,
jaw set with glee and slyness,
his future ghost dropping in
to remind me he’ll always
be with me, even when I no longer
know where or who I am.
I rented a boat and went
fishing in the Caribbean.
The guy who took me was
proud of his sonar,
acres of ocean on a little screen.
A black shape might be a big fish,
might be a school of smalls.
We rode around all morning
watching the screen.
There was nothing there.
