by Gillian Wigmore

he wants to catch the fish, he’s so patient, a purist—he ties his own flies, then tries them even when spoons are working. he helps me. he makes me a fish bonker out of a root. he scoops my fish out of the water, lays it down flapping, then smashes its head in.

I always catch the fish because I try so hard not to. he sets it all up—pulls the boat down the rocks, fills the gas tank, runs the motor, brings the smokes. he ties the lure on and throws it out of the boat. I read and catch fish that knock my book off my lap and put my cigarette out in the bloody slosh round my feet when I stand up to reel them in.

onshore he nails the burbot through the skull to a board in order to peel it, but when he peels it, it wiggles. we both jump back. when I start to cry he gives up, loosens the needle-nosed pliers from the skin and we go down to the boat. marriage should always be like this—a motoring away together from horror to open water.

fishing after breakup, after that second false start into spring, the sun soaks into the backs of our arms, the parts in our hair and burns our noses. we hunker down, sheltered from the wind by the lifejackets we bought ourselves last christmas. we stare and reel, stare and reel. is this what you’d call a mackerel sky? yep. love, I’ve got one on.

Gillian Wigmore grew up in Vanderhoof, BC, graduated from the University of Victoria in 1999, and currently lives in Prince George. She has been published in Geist, CV2, filling station, and the Inner Harbour Review, among others. Her first chapbook, home when it moves you, was published by Creekstone Press in 2005. soft geography, her first full-length book of poems, will be published by Caitlin Press in Spring 2007.