kythera

GONE FISHING

When I first cast into the shaded pool
of promising cool liquid floor
I savor the moments waiting.
Anticipation.

A glance
I hold a little too long.
Just long enough.

My favorite parts are next:
the bites,
the nibbles that tug
and retreat
and return for another
taste.

Fingers graze.
Lips brush past.
Gazes smile
and linger.

Another tug
a little stronger
a little slower
a little braver

Hips sway
a little more than usual

A hard pull down

and pants fall
on the carpet
in wrinkled piles.
Stiff.

It lets go.

Time for me to be getting home.

And circles.
Then the fast nibble
instant later -
the bite.
Hooked.

Can we turn off the lights?

I yank and it struggles
Pull
but it can't get off
can't let go

Yes!
No!

And then it lifts from the water
dripping, in spasms -
it's drowning on air.

It's over.

I hate this part -
when I catch it.

Was it good for you?

And have to rip out the hook.

I'll call you.

And throw it back.

But I never do.

I wish they'd get away,
vanish.

I hate catching fish.

-hjs 7/9/03