Once caught, hook in jaw,
I ask them for a few words
about the minnows
and life under water
Their mouths open and close —
a trickle of blood,
flips of tail and fin —
not a whisper or groan
I slide them back into the water
with a meek, “sorry,”
my fingers left stinking
with the memory of slime
I have swum a brief while
in their world —
flying fish and walking fish,
an instant in mine
If they could catch and hold me,
ask me to describe life on earth,
the first word out and in and out
of my mouth would be: “Why?”