Sacrifices

Sacrifices


It was at the fishing hole a worm
squeezed my knuckle. It was September,
I was 6 and toeheaded. The leaves in the trees

turned red and shook at the concrete sky.
Fully aware of the life wriggling
around my finger—if I am honest, I will tell you I sobbed

lightly when I pinched it in half,
threaded the hook through its wormy body.
And as if in an act of bitter defiance,

I flung the line with vigor.
My bobber rippled the water's surface,
a fluorescent twig in the mucky pondwater.

I had not yet learned of twelve-bar blues,
gasoline, an empty tummy. I only knew two things:
my bike and my fishing pole.

But I only knew with training wheels.
I only knew to yank and reel
when the bobber plopped down beneath the water.

And when I cranked up that shimmering silver fish
out of the pond it sent tiny quakes
into my pale wobbly thin arms. I could only look at it,

the red flesh under its gills, shock
filling its gaping body. I lowered it to the dirt,
watching it flail and pad against the earth.

My teeth clenched tight. If I am honest,
I will tell you I knew it was dying
in all this air. I waited for it to settle down,

afraid of its stark fight for life, and as it began to rest,
I looked down on the fish, its mouth moving
like it searched for words that could never

be spoken. I imagined the frequencies humming
around in my blonde head. And then there was quiet.
I whipped my fishing pole and freed the lure

from the cheek. The lure flew above and behind me,
got caught in the hair of our willow tree. I struggled with it,
but the willow was persistent, so I laid the pole at her feet,

picked up the still, oily fish and flung
it into the water, watching silently
from the grass for it to come alive.