Page 55 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #12

Fishing
Shallow, lapping water pulls and warps the shadow of a boy, braced before the morning with a rod.
His toes grip the silver weathered boards of the dock. The lake is quiet, except for the creak of rope
and the virgin drop of the weighted hook when he casts.
Soon the cry comes - Caught one! On a hair’s width, the bent rod reels it in: a middling fish, fighting the air. The boy is smiling, saying - Hold still!
Running his wetted hand down the sharp fin pricks, he holds it up, face to face. The fish pants, staring.
The barb has pierced the pale cartilage around the eye and cannot be unhooked. He puts it in the bucket -
for a breather - where it flick-flacks, tangling the line. Bigger hands are called for, while the boy pleads – Can’t you see we’re trying to help you?
The hook must come out the way it went in.
The open mouth of desire disgorges the bait
of temptation. Quickly slipped back in the bucket,
the fish fans its gills, and a small puff of blood disperses On his knees, the boy watches - saying nothing.
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