Fishing

You made a fist with fingers
not long released by guts
torn with inexact rage from
the newly split belly of your catch.

Half blinded by the bright static
of retreating tide,

I shouted
               in pointless kinship
above the outboard’s drone

“Protest the tough love of the hook,”

and your bucket skudded aft,
                                           brimming
with awkward silver smiles.