Catfish
by James Green

A river-hermit whiskers along the bottom
where light of day dissolves in gradients, glides
past old tires and beer cans, half buried, laid
to final rest in a watery grave, and vacuums

flecks of algae, stirs the gritty sediment
into a granular cloud with a flip of its tail,
the mouth shaped like an old Chevy grille
probing eelgrass with elemental intent.

A hook is lodged in its fleshy lower lip
and a short strand of braided nylon drapes
like a battle streamer as it waits
before nibbling at a morsel of shrimp

slow dancing in the momentary space
between desire and wariness.



 

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