Harsh Bit

It’s practically Spanish moss,
all of the fishing line dangling
from this tree. Many others got hung up
trying to find dead fathers here.
Or they just wanted
to be alone, at least the kind of alone
where it’s just you and fish.
Maybe it’s only me, my tombstone
will say. If my father appeared
in the harsh cone of light my headlamp
subjects this honeysuckle to,
would I be happy? It was all settled.
I could place him in terms of freedom.
Spanish moss isn’t moss
or from Spain. Nor is it hair.
It isn’t human at all. Unlike
these fishing lines, which are also a kind
of memorial. I was here. Let me
show you how wrong it went.