To Catch A Fish || Taylor Leonhardt

I can’t put the worm on the hook.
It squirms in my hand,
Turns my stomach upside down.

You do it, I say.
And you answer, gently,
This is the only way to catch a fish.

I guess I don’t like a thing 
I can’t grab hold of
or the grim unpleasantness of blood and guts — 
things aren’t going so well for this worm! —
and who knows if I‘ll even catch a thing?

And who knows what will emerge from the quiet river of my life?
I can’t possibly go there
Can’t do the blood and guts work of healing, of finding my own soul at the river bottom. 

You do it, I say. 

But you never rob me of the dignity bestowed in doing the necessary thing.
When I have so many cannots,
I feel your hand over mine.

We thread worm around hook
Words around pain
Love around loss
Joy around sorrow 

We watch for silvery scales of promise darting below
We wait for the gentle tug of a new possibility 
For the supper we’ll eat
Together

This is the only way to catch a fish.