You have already gone to the damp wood and pulled the fish from his cradle in the current
You already stopped it from thrashing and crawling at your feet on the mossbed 
You put the fish right here, and accounted for everything, clean table, steel knife. 
Now, holding the bony thing close, tail at your navel, teeth at your jaw, 
where your ribs meet in the middle and so do his, both bodies are bodies
and you’ll know that the difference just chips away while the blood keeps running
—we were kids and only ate chicken eggs laid in the backyard coop by the green pond 
and we did the same thing with the hens, holding them with a shared line of symmetry
that sliced between our lungs, and you would carry the water if I didn’t want to
while I softened the mud floor with wood shavings and smaller boot prints than yours—
Some fish are green, shine purple, or dull like gravel, ice cold once you get to this step:
Give your hand to its contour so when the slack weight slips your palms grip 
the subtle grit of silver shingles sliding down in your grasp
and shift down to hold for a just second before losing traction and grabbing below 
—And again, like when we rappelled down the rock wall together having already gone up
we still trusted the rope, the clip, the soles of our sneakers and fact of our bodies
being any shape they could bend into, taking the give of space.
And I was still made of bird bones and air, not ready for the pinch of the harness 
or elbow friction burn, but someone was waiting on the ground who decided how slack 
the cord could get with hand over hand over and over—How does it feel?
To climb down a fish, one hand at a time? I have tossed the knife aside. 
I’d like to hear a story now. Tell me yours. Or how to do something new.