"Seven and Dying"
Fifty feet of nylon line and a milk jug
stretched across the bay.
Twenty hooks, mostly trebles, hung waiting;
chicken liver and dough balls luring them in.
The year before, we hauled one in that was bigger than me.
Horns on the flat part of its head and scales
the size of house shingles.
His body was alive with violent twists,
his eyes were dead and black.
I cut him loose and watched him disappear
into a thick, green swirl.
Now,
as we approached the spinning jug,
I heard the motor cut off.
We drifted a few feet and the anchor went over.
"Ain't we gonna go get 'im?"
"Not yet."
He spoke
through a mouth full of sunflower seeds.
I turned toward him as he was untying a buoy
from the side of the boat.
"Take your life jacket off, son."
Maybe it was the sound of his voice. Maybe
it was
the way the cottonwoods looked
in the last light of evening,
black trunks and the silver shimmer of rustling leaves.
"But I can't swim."
He nodded, the husk of a seed stuck to his chin.
"That's why we're here."
I must have said I didn’t want to,
the fish were too close,
but he was not listening
he was leaning into me,
standing me up,
lifting me
up,
and I hit the water, rolling
my lungs filling, my eyes burning
the terror ripping through me as I thrashed
for the surface.
I kicked (swam)
in the direction of the dock,
away from the shore, away
from the man-eating Catfish
that lurked on hooks,
angry,
hungry for the real deal,
waiting for me to get close,
to be devoured,
to be killed,
ripped apart,
flesh from bone, blood from vein,
eating me as I drowned,
a frenzy
of fear.
I think I may have seen him,
laughing.
I wonder
if he knew
I would survive.
Fifty feet of nylon line and a milk jug
stretched across the bay.
Twenty hooks, mostly trebles, hung waiting;
chicken liver and dough balls luring them in.
The year before, we hauled one in that was bigger than me.
Horns on the flat part of its head and scales
the size of house shingles.
His body was alive with violent twists,
his eyes were dead and black.
I cut him loose and watched him disappear
into a thick, green swirl.
Now,
as we approached the spinning jug,
I heard the motor cut off.
We drifted a few feet and the anchor went over.
"Ain't we gonna go get 'im?"
"Not yet."
He spoke
through a mouth full of sunflower seeds.
I turned toward him as he was untying a buoy
from the side of the boat.
"Take your life jacket off, son."
Maybe it was the sound of his voice. Maybe
it was
the way the cottonwoods looked
in the last light of evening,
black trunks and the silver shimmer of rustling leaves.
"But I can't swim."
He nodded, the husk of a seed stuck to his chin.
"That's why we're here."
I must have said I didn’t want to,
the fish were too close,
but he was not listening
he was leaning into me,
standing me up,
lifting me
up,
and I hit the water, rolling
my lungs filling, my eyes burning
the terror ripping through me as I thrashed
for the surface.
I kicked (swam)
in the direction of the dock,
away from the shore, away
from the man-eating Catfish
that lurked on hooks,
angry,
hungry for the real deal,
waiting for me to get close,
to be devoured,
to be killed,
ripped apart,
flesh from bone, blood from vein,
eating me as I drowned,
a frenzy
of fear.
I think I may have seen him,
laughing.
I wonder
if he knew
I would survive.