Any man you could find
you brought to the fishpond.
You surprised them 
by painting crosses on the tips of the clover,
by fishing for minnows,
drawing them up on a slender line.

They always laughed at your boldness
until the silver hook stuck.
They would fight
the barbs tugging their gills,
blood and scales swirled in the wound.
They tried to leap back in the dark
belly of the pond.
But you were insistent, unhurried,
and stroked and breathed in the waves.

You knew a small, blind fish
swam inside every man,
that there was the thought of a tree
in every tree,
and the idea of the minnow
only forgotten,
would slowly emerge,
to flash and squirm up the thread
of your voice, the invisible line–

Once, you went alone to the fishpond 
and found the idea of yourself
walking out of its flesh, 
out of your dress as you moved–

You explored the weeds, pondside,
where plovers' high knees plowed the edge-waves.
You stretched out over the banks,
feet in the mud and algae 
blooms, watching hundreds of minnows
flip like coins in the sun,
you tangled your hair, 
calling the minnows
that swim below,
asking the world 
to swallow you whole.