swallowing the hook

I like to ride with him out to the river
the fisher king, the life and death giver
with his flies and his floats and his stale white bread
his fish blood hands and his fish blood head

I like to lie in the grass half asleep
and watch his fishing line flick and leap
as the wide river slides and the fat sun thins
and the maggots keen softly in their little round tin

now I’m old like you and I live by the sea
and the same fish swim out to look for me
It’s true, I tell them, I’m the son of the king
I’ve swallowed the hook, now reel me in


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