The First Fish I Caught Was a Sun

Updated: 2 days ago

Woman before an Aquarium 1921–23, The Art Institute of Chicago

By Ava Brunton

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The first fish I caught was a sunfish.

I remember it glistening and my dad saying,

Don’t let go. Hold on tight.

So the scales cut me, and I killed it then by accident.

In fear, I threw it far, watching the seagull that circled

dive down and pick it up, and it swam

farther than it’s ever gone.

It swam to sky.

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The second fish I caught was a goby, and it was alive, poor thing.

Hold the rod. He shifts to the next seat up, pulling the line closer until the fish is in his hands.

You should watch this. Or close your eyes. Whatever your mom would want you to do.

I breathe evenly. I pull forward. It’s invasive, it’s not a good fish. It eats things that shouldn’t

be touched. And because of this I am confused when I watch it

split open.

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I caught a minnow.

I took the pink net from the shed, and he wasn’t there to watch me run

barefoot down the road. I would stand by a little stream of water until I saw

the baby fish fly, reflecting sun and sky and me,

staring, waiting for the right time to catch. I wanted it

because I couldn’t catch frogs yet and because I could keep it moving

for a few days. So I touched it tender in the net

holding slime and scale and eye

and when he asked me if I had ever caught a fish

I say no, I have never caught anything, dad.