THE TROUT

The winter river lies placid as death.
Only the crackled surface heavings hint
at what stirs beneath:  a blue trout undulates
in half time, like a symphony too slow,
and finds a woman’s body, naked as he.
Hair billows like seaweed, hands brush the bed
as if in search for what’s lost.  Open lips,
puffed round, seem about to sigh, or cry out
at the vacant eyes’ last scene.  Taut-cold skin,
breast and hip, bluer than the trout, turn gently
in the quiet current of this slippery grave,
as she turned, with less freedom, in her mother
twenty years ago.  The wall-eyed trout blows
a kiss and turns to troll for living prey.



Greg McBride
GREG McBRIDE has been an attorney, an army photographer in the Vietnam War, and a wrestler. His poems and essays appear in 32 Poems, Connecticut Review, Folio, The Gettysburg Review, Poet Lore, and other journals. His poems also appear in A Common Bond: Poetry and Prose by American and Vietnamese Veterans of the Vietnam War, Cabin Fever: Poets at Joaquin Miller’s Cabin, 1984-2001; and Off the Record: An Anthology of Poetry by Lawyers.
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The Adirondack Review