Glenn G. Coats

Brackish Ghosts

I thought I saw Johnny at the Food Lion—baseball hat, brim close to his eyes—leaning over his carriage—plowing down an aisle. I believed it was Johnny who grew up near the boat launch. Johnny, who knew where to fish—where to find reds along grassy flats. Knew when not to fish—wind from the east or soon after the rain. Always said, “When the wake is brown, turn her around.” Johnny who was like an almanac—knew the tides by heart. I thought it was the same Johnny who repaired motors—kept fiberglass hulls in the yard—stained and cracked like old teeth. Johnny whose pockets bulged with notes about parts and prices, who stopped to draw maps in the sand—pointed customers toward the best fishing grounds. Yes, he was the salt of the earth. I know he has been gone for a while. I thought it was him.

in the river
where I used to be
tree shadows

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About the Author

Glenn G. Coats lives with his wife, Joani, in Carolina Shores, North Carolina. His books include two Snapshot Press collections of haibun, A Synonym for Gone (2021) and Degrees of Acquaintance (2019); Furrows of Snow (Turtle Light Press, 2019), an honorable mention winner in the Haiku Society of America’s 2020 Merit Book Awards; and Another Lost Boat (Pineola Publishing, 2022).

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