The Catch

When you
pulled the trout
from the shallows
on your first cast, I was
impressed. He was wild,
he lost the hook once, charged
back to savage it. You yanked him
roiling off the line and the white milk
of his seed spasmed over your hand. Oh
that was it, starving, ready to spawn he'd grab
at anything that flashed his appetite; your own
face red, sweated, sexual. Just then the small
boy-life inside me stirred in its milky amnios
and all that might tease and promise bliss
and spill him appeared before me
exacting for his life
my peace

Printed in the Fall/Winter 2001 issue of CLR

Dawn McGuire lives in Berkeley, California, and divides her time between being a mom, a neurologist, and a poet. Her book, Hands On, published by ZYZZVA, is due out around Christmas.