A Good Fish

Jerk that bitch, urges my guide,

and I give my shuddering pole

a jerk, hooking the throat

of the first steelhead of my life.

Reel 'em, he mutters and revs the motor.

I horse my pole and reel and horse.

The boat's mascot whines, her claws

clicking. Let it take some line.

My father, uncle, and cousin

are reeling. First fish! they shout,

and I shout, What a fighter!

A silver spine touches the air.

There, he points, a hen. And guess what?

She's gonna join the club,

somehow spotting in that glimpse

the smooth place along her back

where a fin had been snipped.

He leans over the gunwale, dips a net,

and scoops her into the boat.

She is thick with a wide band

of fiery scales, slap-

slapping the aluminum bottom.

Welcome to the club, he says,

and clobbers her once, and again,

and once more before she goes still.

A bleeder, he says, shaking his head

and handing her to me. I curl

a finger through a gill the way

you're supposed to, determined

not to let her slip and flop

back to the river, a blunder

I'd never live down. A good fist.

Fish, I mean. A good fish.