The Last Released

 

1.) The Would and Wouldn't Guy

He had a habit,

the grandpa down the road without

a grandchild anymore, and while

he’d share enough about, say,

time in Vietnam or how to brush a carburetor

clean, he wouldn’t

indicate a thing about his family. We

gathered they were left two states away,

by the license plates of pickups that would stay

a night or two in early May,

when walleye, pike and bass were chomping

at the bit to start the summer right.

He had a habit,

those who shared a dock would know,

to throw the first and last of minnows to

their freedom from the pail:

one to lure the luck, 

the other to affect the opposite, somewhat like 

the evil eye.

Don’t get greedy, now, he’d tell the lake,

as if the place he’d cast his bait

was just as interested in netting him, 

or, presumedly, the grandchild on his mind.

He’d do the same in winter months, 

when holes into the ice

would close at night and beg 

the morning question whether it was worth 

the opening again. 

If so, 

he’d need more minnows, and that

would mean he’d stay until the last one

would compel the letting go. And that is why 

we whispered him the Would and Wouldn’t Guy.

 

2.) Guesswork

Also down that road, a little further in

the woods, and not as public as 

the Would and Wouldn’t Guy, lived a widow on 

the brink of blending in

to Mother Earth.

Difference was, like Hester Prynne

a half a dozen decades old, she had her Pearl

to dance them through the solstices of

social workers’ questioning.

An Istanbul of cats they also had to 

ward away the rats that wanted nothing more

than rinds from melons, chicken bones,

stuff to throw behind the shed

for reasonable control; no need to cover up

a compost heap

and breathe in deep the herbs

that smile upon this scene.

Fruits and poultry not enough,

the matron and her granddaughter had knit 

a casting net for catching fish, heading for 

the closest dock.

They had no license, naturally, and felt it best to

operate at night, when no one 

would object, or so the story went.  

3.) Shadows Overlapping

For her part, Pearl seemed happy as

a glacial basin clam, if sad to know 

the Would and Wouldn’t Guy no longer had a

grandchild in tow. 

Not that they were chums—more like

shadows overlapping shadows in the dark. 

The spotlights never were in synch,

and maybe shouldn’t influence the things

worth looking for. Minnow number 1 may find 

the last released,

assuming neither are deceased.

And now the lake has turned, as naturally

as algae reproduce a certain way;

the bottom gurgles up like lava busting free or

earthworms after rain.

The fish may scarce survive such soup, if

some have seen this scene before;

humans know to stay at home a week or more.

‘It will be fine,’ the widow reassures,

glossing over what the pronoun wouldn’t say.

‘Okay’, Pearl nods, then runs to tell her shadow.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2026)