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.