This morning I
flicked a fishing hook and line
into the stagnant pond
It snagged and tore
into a little minnow’s side
He huffed and puffed on air
as pricked fingers
jimmied and pried
and worked the hook away
But fingers cannot
hold in little organs
and milky air bladders
With black thread and needle
scaly flesh could sear together
But not dissolve
the gasping
flailing
pounding
once insides want out
I stand on dirt mounds
and hope someday a fisherman
can pull a beauty from the water
and note the stitching in its side;
Odds are
it’s long forgotten,
drowned in air
— C.M.
