One Degree of Separation

The apple doesn’t fall far from
the tree, right? But a microburst
day might blow it to some exotic
orchard, say kiwi, or dragon fruit.
Which is how Sylvia Plath’s

and Ted Hughes’ son, Nick, chose fish
behavior rather than poetry. In
my own poetic vacancy — the age
between high school and early
career — Plath post-mortem summited

all feminist peaks, while Hughes was
deemed part beast, part poet-
laureate. I met neither. Nick,
then colleague, rarely mentioned
family — Ted and Sylvia mere

motes in the atmosphere of fisheries
biology. Our shared research love
was lithesome and fickle — we explored
why stream fishes chose and held
specific positions in flowing water —

our papers adorned with terms
such as capture success, reactive
distance, energy maximization.
We dined on Pulpo a la Gallega
and almejas while chatting about our

session at the stream fish meetings
in Luarca, Spain; afterwards penning
a joint review.* I was a decade
older, and his Dean emailed
“tenure…