A Wreath To The Fish

Swimming Lessons (1996)

Who is this fish, still wearing its wealth,flat on my drainboard, dead asleep,its suit of mail proof only against the stream?What is it to live in a stream,to dwell forever in a tunnel of cold,never to leave your shining birthsuit,never to spend your inheritance of thin coins?And who is the stream, who lolls all dayin an unmade bed, living on nothing but weather,singing, a little mad in the head,opening her apron to shells, carcasses, crabs,eyeglasses, the lines of fisherman begging fornews from the interior-oh, who are these linesthat link a big sky to a small streamthat go down for great things:the cold muscle of the trout,the shinning scrawl of the eel in a difficult passage,hooked-but who is this hook, this cunningand faithful fanatic who will not let gobut holds the false bait and the true worm alikeand tears the fish, yet gives it up to the basketin which it will ride to the kitchenof someone important, perhaps the Popewho rejoices that his cook has found such a fishand blesses it and eats it and rises, saying,“Children, what is it to live in the stream,day after day, and come at last to the table,transfigured with spices and herbs,a little martyr, a little miracle;children, children, who is this fish?”