A new poem by Greg Bell

The Taxidermist’s Wife

Like a sprung fish, caught;
that flash of skin
and you’re gutted, heart

thrashing in the stomach’s
shallow bed.
It can drag a man down.

Through radio wave
corridors and benthic haze,
past hook-eyed colleagues

dangling in caves.
Anglers, all of them –
slick, well-equipped,

they feign working late
to patiently prey.
That splash; high-

heeled, wheeling,
and faith fades.
Lands you here,

at the shoreline’s low ruche,
where you kneel,
reeling, eyeing the water

warily, while on it
your woman slips away.