Fishing [Day 8]

Look up from the sky,
the sun is setting behind
your eyes seem to bother
the thoughts you never know
to speak out loud, and the
birds, they’re calling out to
the suns beyond those we’ve
known, you sit cross legged,
fingers intertwined with the hem
of your shirt; we’re surrounded by
water on all sides, the final departure
of the sun catches us rowing back to the
shore we are never going to find: you
wanted a red snapper with its sharp
needle teeth, and bright skin, and soft
insides and empty eyes, barely alive
like all the other fish we eat, but
fishing isn’t the hook dangling like
it’s a dead man on the hanging tree-
fishing is knowing what you want to
stop from breathing,” you told me,
and that’s when fishing was for the
weak, so we went down to the
forgotten lake, and I didn’t know
a lot about fishing, so you handed me
the fish fish liked to kill, and I watched
you hand me the rod while I fumbled
with the thought of learning, and then
hours and hours of silence ticked by:
neither of us knew what to speak,
and when the sun set, I rowed back,
you sat watching-
the lake a dimming, threatening deep
shade of green- you sat watching
the fish you’d thrown back in the sea,
and you sit watching till I rowed with
the whole of my might, and you sit
watching, but your breathing stopped
and I think I saw a red snapper surfacing.


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