Cutthroat Trout

1

The way the fish lay
a wrist cut

In water the life flowing
upstream dilating
the process dreaming
of being that and the
hook in my mouth

The way i am forced
to bend the rod
until i know i'll lose
if it is not done carefully

Play the graphite spline
the whole length the
tensile self

A
reminder of our journey
how we strike
not as in water and not
as though caught
by hook on line

Out of control

So hot

Our footsteps melt the surface
while we pass
the commotion reversing the helix

Backward time is twisted

Lines are run together
jumps through the salt
reel screams thumb roasted
on the flying monofilament

The line humping up on the air

Like the hills around Drumright, Oklahoma
stand up where there
are no trout

But when i walked there
along the path by the creek
and came upon the trout on the sandbar
a perfect crescent half-moon
bitten out of it,
it still quivering,
and blood running down the throat
marked it,
whatever ate or wanted to
was gone
a presence that lived on in the air
i feel it now.
Somewhere eyes grabbed me, pulled,
i left the fish as it lay.

2

In the small
backpacking tent
we set up on Parent Lake
on the Kekekabic trail
in Minnesota's Boundary Waters
in the late afternoon,
after hiking all day,

Lying naked in the tent
on our sleeping bag
sweaty fumes rising up
after lovemaking—

We lay there
our warmed blood
vaporizing upward to
the mosquitos
swimming above our skylight
flowing upstream
waiting for the door to open.

Copyright © David Dwinell 2003