Rebecca Foust

Raystown River Trout

It took my hook like kite-caught wind. 
I had to fight to reel it in, to net 
its taut dense-bodied surge, heft 
and heave of oiled writhe.

I knew about the upstream mine, 
uncapped and seeping mercury, so I 
wore gloves to hold the fish no fool 
would eat and waited for the mystery 

and passion. But there was no rainbow, 
rainbow, rainbow, no communion 
with Christ’s flesh. Just this prism 
flash gone gray and my sick wish 
I’d never caught it. I wished I’d cut 
the line before the glitter got away.