I remember going fishing with Opa;
Drove to the bait shop.
We bought a styrofoam cup of death row worms.
Used death, made more death.
Mass populated a five gallon bucket—
Frantic rainbow trout—
Until all colors bled into each other,
Clear, clean life; turning the water yellow-brown
Like a smoker's teeth.
Then all light and scent, like childhood finger paints,
Smoothed into deep brown.
Except black eyes staring through the pungency
Of trout genocide.
Opa takes the fish and scales it down to size,
Throws the guts to worms.