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Lesley Perrins

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The Catch

I thought I had it mastered,
my backyard fear
of what would be behind
the lavatory door.

I’d made my peace with iron,
the rusting cistern,
grey chain barely in my reach,
the bolt I’d never latch

and hunkered on the wall,
the narrow bath
measured for a man,
more coffin than canoe.

There were rarely spiders,
crane flies, or fat-bellied moths,
so I was unprepared
to find the pike

that spanned the circle
of a bucket,
buoyed by death
in tap water;

He was khaki, slick
and colder than the porcelain,
mottled as the newsprint squares
hanging on a nail.

He’s there now
just below the surface,
one lidless eye

and his jaw has all the teeth
of things that should lie
on the bottom.

Photograph of outhouse

Lesley Perrins lives in Surrey and works for the local branch of the Alzheimer’s Society and as a counsellor.

Page(s) 69

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