Hook
Once, seasick on the charter boat,
I crawled up from the cabin
just in time
to reel in an award-winning bass.
The captain shouted, Fry it up
and swallow it down whole.
After the cheers and photo poses,
without a pause,
I threw the fish back
into Lake Michigan.
Damp and nauseous, I crept away,
slowly stepping down
into the boat’s dark lower level,
tunneling into my makeshift bed,
hiding under thin, white sheets.
Sleep never came to me.
There I was, alone, rocking
with the waves.
Here and there, I grabbed
the olive-green bucket
and threw up.
Wiping my mouth, grinning,
I cared not at all
about catching and winning.
Instead, I pictured the shiny,
glorious, divine, empty hook,
the release, the creature’s freedom,
the shocked, big people on the deck,
and all of their furious
faces.
C.A. MacConnell
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