Bela Lugosi pulls the string. He winds
the fishing line. He brings his own bouquet.
Barracuda tugs the string, puppet-like.
Huckleberry, on the raft, marks the twain.
The fish flounders. The old actor must strain
his voice. Calls for butter and salt, gourmand.
That ancient ancestor glowers, his rage
Fixed on the boy, like bluegill and like pike.
The string goes limp, flesh-thing straining aboard,
the struggle that precedes fishermen’s feasts
The mouth slackens when Bela makes the cut
above the dorsal fin, spined and flexing
A barb catches the junkie’s pruning thumb.
Half headless fish falls in an S, deed done.