THE CATCH
Two hooks in her cheek, one in her lip,
The bass lay passive on the gravel bank
As though my fingers twisting barbs out of cartilage
Were veterinarian healing probes.
Back in the water, leashed on a stringer,
She rested in rusty bottom reeds,
Sometimes backpaddling the length of her tether
With small delicate strokes of her fins.
She’d made her protest demonstration when the pain
First snagged her face, that treacherous
Red lure. She arched my rod, launching
Herself like a rocket out of control.
I sharpened the blade for a fast scalpel cut
At the base of the head. She lay still
As a patient on an operating table. Scales scattered.
I saw her sacks of roe were full.
My father taught me how to fish, threading
The worms as casually as bacon rind
Onto the hooks, smoothing down the fins,
Enclosing the perch in his freckled hand.
(Reutemann Road Poems, 1960-1972)
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