The Wordsmith Goes Fishing

tonight I am fishing
in my rough bark
on the black sea.
I am reeling in the net:

that is full of babies,
heads’ hair fine like black faun’s fur
with white twitching
arms and legs.

The skin on their torsos
vaguely translucent,
I can see their hearts beating
like furious cuts of meat.

They are crying like newborns,
splashing like frightened seatrout.

How will I know
which one to keep?
I can’t eat them all.

As I ponder this
one falls in the boat
like a wet sponge.
It smells of fish and brine,

its tiny white chest heaving:
it’s still learning
how to breathe.

Perhaps it is learning
how to cry for its mother
who lives in the depths
where the sun can’t go.

I will keep this one then.
It will be tasty, I think,
with lemon juice and tartar,
perhaps a buttered slice
of honey wheat bread
as well.

And as I ponder
how poets eat their young
I throw the rest back.
With a splash
they swim away
going down,
diving deep like seabass
where the dark
maternal shapes
move like mountains.