Cocktail Hour

It’s like a nibble
at my line. I do not feel it all the time.

I do not feel it all—
the time just goes more slowly then—

but I do not
feel it all the time. A hair-fine spine

rubbed backward
in my palm—I do not feel it all the time—

& when I do,
it’s not so bad, just a nibble at my line,

a swallowed barb, or
like the fish has sunk both its rows

of curving teeth
into my thigh, each gilled breath a tug

as its body lolls & heaves,
a sawtooth edge that frays the line

or cuts the flesh
in scalloped grooves. It sounds so much

worse than it really is,
& I do not feel it all the time—only when

the river moves.