Luring the Herring

POETRY

by Mickie Kennedy

Something yanks
            the line. A fight begins
                        where pull and wind

become a slap of wet
            on the wooden slats
                        of my grandmother’s pier.

With the slight pressure
            of a shoe, I calm the body.
                        I don’t know if he’ll make it

for dinner. I need three,
            at least, for the gutting
                        to be worth our time.

I wrench the barb free.
            The fish goes limp.
                        The bait goes soft.

Just beneath the surface,
            a stingray passes,
                        pale as a paper bag.