Once, I watched the day start over Meramec Springs, 

misting and cool, 

the sun hiding behind the folds of the sky.  

 

I watched the water pour over mossy rocks, 

watched it fill cracks and gaps in the riverbed,  

caressing the kaleidoscope scales of the rainbow trout.  

 

Yes, I watched you with your fishing pole in hand.  

You showed me this once too, how to wrap the line 

around itself, twisting and pulling into a sturdy knot. 

 

I watched you, arm bent back, closed fist.  

I watched the tension pull and break, I watched 

the water split, muddled gray, rippling. 

 

And I know, I know the water that feeds this spring. 

I know the blue veins of the Meramec River,  

I know the strong stretch of the Mississippi that births it.  

 

And yes, I remember the way trout struggle when caught.  

I remember the lure stuck down its throat. I know 

the image of its mouth, gasping, throat clenching down.  

 

I know the rubber grip of pliers; I know the way that flesh 

resists force. I know the feeling of metal, the way gills 

part for the prodding of the stringer.  

 

And yes, I can still taste sweet iron, blood painting  

the bank crimson. Yes, I know the fuzzy taste of rot.  

Yes, I remember the way river water fills the mouth.  

 

I remember the coldness of clean water, the sharpness 

of the knife against living, breathing bellies.  

I remember the way skin slips from muscle. 

 

Laid out, nothing, bloody, done.  

No, don’t ask me any more questions.  

No. I won’t miss you when I’m gone.