Cut Throat (accessible version)

Seth Brady Tucker

BPR 48 | 2021

the lumped mud
sticked homes of beavers
silk
bodies
pressed
warm on packed clay
nose to nose or
leather tails to feet; colonial family
cozy as sunned loam;
a trout
slick in passing, your lure & bobble tossed
fat & loud from the steeped
bank
you know
that all
of this means
death
eventually
just
six fingers old
but death
is already a fifth cousin
& the Regan kid has gone missing &
those two Shoshone sisters
from the Arapahoe Rez
dead, & the hook & the line tighten
pluck
is the sound of life
ripped from the water
& how these weapons come attached
to your hand
as if grown there
overnight;
you have seen this look
recognition pale
in their eyes
fish-deep
& even
when the flies buzz
(flies on the eye-blood)
& black to the hide
even the crumbling bank entropic
under your feet;
you
have
been
given
all
the
tools
necessary
for
man:
an ugly bag of tricks
a filleting knife
heavy pliers
a rock. A fist.
A line of dull eyes
glistens in your canvas bag;
when the trout strikes
your father’s hand
is there to ensure
you bring
the beast
all
the way
to the shore.