Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Three
Hooked
He caught me on an overcast Saturday,
hiding in blue,
cool water against my body,
free. He announced himself
with just a splash, barely
disrupting the water,
hungry, waiting for a nibble.
He didn't
lure me in immediately.
Others were caught, didn't come back,
or did but were never
the same. But I moved
closer. Took
a bite. Sweat above
his lips conveyed his surprise
at my strength.
Using every muscle in his broad arms,
his knees bent, back arched.
Fear made me resist,
but he reeled me in. I started dancing, spinning,
sun shimmering down on me, its heat
stronger than ever,
flying for the first time,
unable to breathe.
Settled into the curve
of his hand, calloused, but cool,
his fingers touching me as if I was more beautiful
than the sun or water.
How could someone not
trust his eyes, blue as home.
I waited for him to remove the hook driven deep
into my flesh, to soothe my wound.
His eyes studied my silently pleading mouth
wanting to be stilled, thrilled,
wanting him to take me,
give me a new life.
He tosses me back.
The water stings when I hit the surface, is colder
than I remember.