ANGLER’S NIGHTMARE
Michael Keshigian
He thinks the fish
he landed,
the huge stripe
bass’ eye
sees a monster’s face,
a demon with soft
hands of fire
that boils its
slick body
in the acid of air
with a tease from
the hook’s barb
that now knits the
gasping jaw closed.
He imagines
himself
such beautiful
meat with a cruel demise,
no longer privy to
the love and seclusion
of the black
emptiness
from which it was
snatched.
He places the rod
upon the sand
and enters the
ocean
until he can taste
the salt
then asks the tide
to mend all wounds
on the motionless
flesh
extinguished in
his hands,
that it might
again have life
and return to the
bounty
of the cold world
in the dark coral
depths
where this bass
might then dream of him
in the bottomless
sea,
of his hands and
his sorrowful blue eyes.
