Evolution

by Alexis Wilson

Limbs turn to gills,

Hoofed animals cast

as bait against the pilings,

a relentless maker.


Can I reconcile

the way they must have?


Fishing for my father I find

the net cast against

the skiff is empty.

one small fingerling

is caught in the slipstream,

belly-side up beneath the boat.


In a shallow wake of light,

I dip my toe in the water

                                   and the rest of my body

follows.


Before long I will have,

by no miracle,

learned to

                                  swim.