New poem – and a new contributor – Fish by Deborah Arnander


When you were eleven
you loved fishing.

When you were forty
you went out
and bought yourself the best
rods and lures
your hard-earned money could buy.
You even bought
a special fishing hat.
You sat on the bank
in your nylon chair
The trees dripped honeydew
onto thick water.
And there were dragonflies.
They made you think of your first kiss.

Then suddenly
a small vibration
singing on the line
and something tugging –
Your fingers fumble at the reel
you bite your lip:
a little silver perch
with orange fins
rips twisting up into the air.

Your heart goes down

You weren't expecting fish.

• Deborah Arnander is a literary translator, working from French to English. She's lived in Bangkok, Paris, San Francisco and Seville; now has two young children and lives in Norwich. She has just completed a diploma in creative writing at the University of East Anglia.

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