I, the Fisherman

Amy Marvin

Sitting aloft on my hill of green,
watching the chatter float by while
clutching a spear so I can puncture
words that escape their tether. You can

see an open river, swarming with
myriad fish, some uncouth and others
bobbing with disgusting regularity. I,
the fisherman, with lettered reel, now

plucking life beyond its measure
and splaying to my cohort. Sometimes
we chew them, and delight in our bounty,
while other occasions call for throwing

them back in, killing off camera. Reflected
faintly in the river, I have no lip
to hook, and no cheek to discuss,
but I do have a long bevel to gut aplenty,

with no belly to fill. When the river runs
thin, I continue to fish, scanning for
more sickly ones to thrust into,
my jaws salivate all the same.

When the river dries up, or the speakers
vanish, I pack my tackle box and
vacation in Europe again. There is always
chatter in other rivers, I will fish again.