Earthworm

The Bible names them great:
the Rock and the sons of Zebedee
are good men, they fish with nets—
for a living—in that lake called sea.

But the boy along the banks of the river
which dirt and silt had made still,
isn’t he wicked
or there’s someone/something
more wicked than he is?
For he catches fish with a line
tipped with a murderous hook
that hurts first the earthworm
that charms the little carp
to a maddening struggle
with its mouth gaped wide
and the hook now in between
its gills and its left eye—
death, for the fish, death,
doubled, for the earthworm.

Pity the earthworm, imagine
how its tiny eyes see the sharpness
of the hook of its own demise,
how the hook is forced
into its tender mouth,
piercing the innocent esophagus,
and into its stomach. How it writhes
its pink segmented body,
gentle amid pain, and silent
amid the excited jubilation
of the boy who carefully lowers the line
into the very murk of the river—
for a palm-sized carp, a feast
for a family of six members
inside a shanty under the bridge.