Eros Turannos
___________________________________________

When I picture this, it is always a boy
walking out of the woods with a trout in his hands.
He carries it carefully; it is turning to stone,
the points of flame along its belly fading.

Was it a shadow in an eddy
below an abandoned railroad bridge?
He deceived it with a hook, then bent
to gather it thrashing into his net.

At the moment of obligation
on a bank of pungent mint, he opened its flesh
with his pen knife, discarding ravelled guts
the color of wet lead. Now

empty and pure in his hands
it is stiffening, and its eyes
have the look of an outraged
god who has died, as we all do, for hunger.