09. Barb

The barb, an invention blessed by use
as cruel as death,
as sure as sanity:
that single penetration.

Withdraw it if you can,
rather flounder
on a string, anchored by flesh,
as any fish.

Ancient man used whalebone,
horn, a springy twig
fashioned it with skill,
the weapon that would kill.

When you were young we went equipped
to catch a fish.
Caught a little olive tench
that swallowed line and hook.

Then we wished we’d used no barb:
I killed that fish,
smashed its head into a stone,
we’ve not been fishing since.

You cast the finer line,
and weighted it to sink;
in joy I took the bait,
a penetration slow and deep.

And still you reel me in,
slowly, slowly, yard on yard.
In mercy, cut the line,
I should have spared the fish.