The soap in my downstairs bathroom reminds me
Of the ooze that leaked from a pregnant snail
After I mutilated her shell to use the meat as bait.
Forcing a hook through her body and casting it into a lake,
I waited for a fish to swallow the tiny knife
And hoped it would get lodged in his esophagus.
I pulled his lungs from the water
And laughed as he writhed at the end of my string.

I don’t fish anymore.