The trout beneath the bed (21-03-24)

 

I confess, I never did

tickle trout from a stream.

But, face-down on my bed, I let my arm fall

from beneath the covers into the cool water; let my hand slide

down the smooth rock, reaching, reaching for the shadowed overhang where fish wave gently in their dreaming.

My hand works upstream against the current, feeling, feeling

for the quiver of trout. My fingers caress a smooth skin, then

hooked by the gills, I wrench it out, triumphant, in an arc of rainbow drops.

And crack its head on the pillow.

 

A fish! she says: such a little fish—we’ll need two for supper.

Again, I let my hand fall, down to the dusty floor;

groping, groping for her other shoe.