THE FISH AND THE HOOK
On a sodden stream bank
a pack lunch with gramps and me.
To teach me the art of fly casting
by an octogenarian, a dying symbol of fertility.
Casting
The bamboo rod
A Peninsula in the mist.
The line
titillating the ripples
as it skipped the waters edge,
taunting virgin gills
to a throat tearing breakfast.
An eager mouth
lurching into the morning air
swallowing the hot shrapnel
Pain....sheer panic.
Pain....sickening pain.
The burning hook ripping the slippery esophagus
until finally digging deep into the gills.
Blood and segments of flesh
fill his mouth.
The pain...sheer pain.
Must stop the pain.
But how?
