He caught a snook
on a line
trailed behind
our boat.

It flailed
in the cockpit bottom
Airless, vacant-eyed
but still alive.

He bashed it
with a winch handle.
Its blood splashed his socks,
the cockpit lockers.

There is salt water
in my eyes.
I ask “Who is this man
with the weapon?”

He tells me
it’s the kindest way.
Quicker than suffocating
through lack of water.

I don’t speak to him
at breakfast.
Eat only toast.
Drink only coffee.

Refuse to eat
his fish.