Lure

dana blatte

In the river, we used to scoop fish. 

Their scales cracked like gold, and we weighed

our fists in their bellies. The twang 

of blood rusted our fingernails like the hinge

of the door we stockpiled our guilt behind. 

The river learned fear: the current bucked

around our fingers, lashing the fish

against padded dirt, bands of cattails,

anything but the eddies of our mouths. 

Long ago, we would have felt sorry

for smaller things. Then we understood 

survival. Sorry does not exist until you trap 

its light. We still purpled our knees on the bridge,

dangling our breaths over the edge,

but the jaws of the fish suckered

shut, their tails flashing downstream,

winking out like winter stars. 

In the bathroom sink, our hands spat

back soap, red draining from our skin. 

A few days later we were completely clean,

and we could not remember how to bend

without crying. For the fish, for our guilt,

we felt sorry for ourselves.

Dana Blatte (she/her) is a junior at Sharon High School in Sharon, MA. Her work is published in Fractured Lit, Rust + Moth, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and more, and has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation and the Pulitzer Center, among others.