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  • Ruining the Perfect Catch

    Lying in our bed with sheets tucked tight, I am reminded of the only trout that you caught last winter in the mountain lake. You gave it to me to cook in the open hearth of the still cabin. I placed the metallic coat of mail in someone's iron skillet. It lay there scouring me with its pleading eye. I harassed it but knew little else of what to do with it. You scolded me for ruining your perfect catch.

    To have you hold me gently in your hands like a bead of fine dew; to have you lay me down on a bed of Queen Anne's Lace, would be like tossing a handful of dice over our tight sheets.

    Pamela Wilonski
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