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CATCH AND RELEASE
(Poem to a Sportfisherman)
i hear your voice through shallow water:
the pain subsides, you say.
see, you're off into the stream again;
soon you'll be so happy to be free.
i hold myself
there in the upstream current,
let my blood seep out
a deep red warning
to the next fish,
hungry,
guard down,
drawn to your perfect imitation.
you never fail.
you know the habits of your prey,
understand the dreams.
you wade in,
never too deep,
cast a long flat line,
your hook
so well disguised.
you know where she rests,
know she's hungry,
know she'll choose your fly
for the way it shimmers
in her dark water dreams.
she will come in innocence.
your predatory scent is hidden.
you know how to wait
for her to come to you.
her mouth will open
to receive you,
she'll swallow deep,
too deep to free herself.
her wildness will begin to fade,
her struggle stop.
she will wait at night,
her own silence deafening,
plead for mercy,
try to understand
how you can reel her in,
take the tiny pliers
from your vest,
remove your barbless hook
from her bleeding mouth,
think to yourself
it doesn't really hurt them,
they go on, they heal.
then lay in wait again,
silent, still, so she
won't be alarmed.
lay your line out on the water.
you know she'll come,
know her hunger,
catch the clear scent of her hope.
you know the cold blue of your eyes
will always feel like home.
she will know each time,
know you will release her,
leave her belly empty, aching.
yet again she will rise,
swallow what you've left as bait.
it is her own blood,
but it won't stop her.
one day her eyes will glaze,
all her soul and strength
drained out in a trickle to the sea.
she will swim
to her spawing ground,
release
her silent children
to the murky darkness
of the river bottom,
wait to die.
© Joan Barton, 1999
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