little redfish lake

By Monica Barrett

Ten miles downhill from Big Redfish Lake, 

where Mom learned to gut a fish, is the smaller version 

I swam across so all my grief could come out. 

The big lake is a tourist trap now, but mom still cried 

when we went horseback riding and 

we cleared a ridge and all you could see 

was all that sun on all that water. 

Somewhere on that lake 

is where I learned to gut a fish, she said 

and I replied, did you know the word lake 

used to mean religious sacrifice.

At the lake filled with my grief 

I learned to gut a fish. Look here, 

she said, you just press the knife 

to the throat and drag across, see, 

it’s writhing around now, at this point 

it’s the most humane thing to do. 

That was the last time we went fishing. 

I threw up all sorts of things in a cluster 

of wildflowers. Your grandfather would

be ashamed, she said, and I believed her, 

even if I didn’t know what for. But that 

was twelve years ago, when my body 

couldn’t hold enough grief to fill 

a teacup. Now I swim in it.

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Monica Barrett (she/her) is a poet from Las Vegas. She lives in Brooklyn.