For the Young

by SHELBY NEWSOM

I was not like my sister.
She could not spear a worm, slide it
onto a hook.

One July day
in the Rockies—cloudless,
mosquitoes oozing

over lake, dark envelope
of woods
a breath away—

I tightened
the line between me
and the copper glean nicking

the surface,
late afternoon. My father
pulled out his bone knife to say

come with me. I followed him
into the woods, loosening the hook
from the rainbow’s lip

as I tripped in the shade.
I had never seen him fillet
a fish up close.

Fish relinquished, the scales’ shine
stung me silent. Words softened
in his mouth as he held knife tip

to tail fin, traced without cutting skin.
Score swift, like bread.
He lifted the blade and sliced into

flesh. At the opening, we saw
our mistake. Blood came
and went, whispered

red on leaves.
He reached within
the deep cavity, spilled

a purse of small coins—her eggs.
My stomach ballooned.
I pressed lips together while he emptied

the slick body into the stillness.
Later, carrying our catch 
he said it wasn’t a loss.

The coyotes combing these parts
would thank us
for feeding their young.