My hands were very busy then, pulling
and cutting. Keeping the tanks full
of freshwater, carrying the specimens
each morning out
to the experimental site. Tugging my sleeves
against black flies. At the end
of every pheromone trial we collected the fish
back from the stream, writhing
in buckets full of mouths. I learned
to make clean incisions. Down the stomach
in long, neat lines. First we stirred chemicals
into the water so they’d die. We couldn’t
always wait for the full effect. After the tags
were extracted we’d remove their heads
with a utility razor. One press. More pressure
better than less. I had ten days on,
then four off. On my second break,
I drove the hour to the other side
of the state. The highway was along
the lake. Tallest red pines I’ve ever seen.
My grandmother was waiting in her chair.
She’d forgotten everything about her
life. No one had warned me. It had
gone very quickly and I was confused.
I kept thinking about the fish. They were
prehistoric. It was late in the day and I took
a bath. My mother came in and poured water
softly over my head. Then I sat by the orange
chair and read to my grandmother
aloud. After twenty minutes I stopped and we
looked at each other. It wasn’t a bad look.
We just didn’t know what we were doing there.
I took her hands. I said even after severed heads
were scraped into a garbage bag, the split bodies
still clutched and struggled, gills
grasping dry, anxious air.
