Ada Limón

When I pulled that great fish up out of Lake Skinner’s
                 mirrored-double surface, I wanted to release
the tugging beast immediately. Disaster on the rod,
                 it seemed he might yank the whole aluminum skiff
down toward the bottom of his breathless world.
                 The old tree of a man yelled to hang on and would
not help me as I reeled and reeled finally seeing
                 the black carp come up to meet me, black eye to black eye.
In the white cooler it looked so impossible.
                 Is this where I am supposed to apologize? Not
only to the fish, but to the whole lake, land, not only for me
                 but for the generations of plunder and vanish.
I remember his terrible mouth opening as if to swallow
                 the barbarous girl he’d lose his life to. That gold-ringed
eye did not pardon me, no absolution, no reprieve.
                 I wanted to catch something; it wanted to live.
We never ate the bottom-feeder, buried by the rose bush
                 where my ancestors swore the roses bloomed
twice as big that year, the year I killed a thing because
                 I was told to, the year I met my twin and buried
him without weeping so I could be called brave.

It’s become as ordinary now
as seeing my face reflected

in the bathroom mirror,
or hovering over the porcelain

toilet. I think, it’s been
nine years since you’ve died.

I’ve made an invisible list
of what you’ve missed. You never

met the man I’ve married. Or
sipped that aromatic bougie drink

at the restaurant with smoked
meats, or pet my dog, or toured

my new house. It’s unfair
but sometimes I pretend you’d

hate it all, judge him, dismiss
the podunk town we live in,

just to make myself feel better.
Other days, your face appears

behind mine laughing in the mirror,
me sharing a sideways secret

about my life that you never
asked for while, outside, someone

hammers away at the door.