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She was proud of herself
I caught a tremendous fish
The fish is slowed down which symbolises how she feels
Rags of green weed hung down
When she recognised the struggle to fight in the fish
He didn’t fight, he hadn’t fought at all
He had been caught many times
From his lower lip if you could even call it a lip grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish line
The fish escaped
A fine black thread still crimped form the strain and snap when it broke and he got away
The fish is old
His brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper
Bishop letting the fish go
And I let the fish go