Sits silently with red eyes
And a plate of worms. Half lidded,
His gaze slips two seats down
The left side of the dinner table,
Until it lands on the live fish
Who eyes his dinner:

“Julian. 
Is it my bait?”
Julian 

Sits before his mouth opens
And he stands.

“No.
It’s my meal.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He was not lying,
But now he was. The eyes
Around the table stab
Through him: they are
Shining hooks in the water.

“Then bleed,” he says,
Because he is tired.

“I will,” it responds,
And it turns and bites
The hook.