How Many Hands Does the Trout Have?

Issue 5 | Winter 2020 |



The last river that touched me
shot down the mountain
like a bullet through a ruddy duck.
Impatient and entitled,
water spilled into my mouth
before a wave could swell.
And, try as I might,
I could not avoid the jumping fish.
In my arms, in my lap, between lips
too tired to dam the currents.