When you were ten you caught a fish
and showed your parents that pink flesh.
They whooped loud, mercury eyes! Silver guts!
That day all guzzled more than enough.
and that night, you grasped a new way to sit
that made the family round and perfect.
All your thoughts from that day on
were mother, cod, father, sturgeon.
You live alone now and don’t eat meat,
you captain a dingy, so that you can greet
the others and judge their hefty catch.
A family can’t feed off one single perch.
There needs to be a freezer full of carcasses
or else no more breath, no more kisses.
Now take those hooks from your tender flesh, see:
You can’t save what you do not release.