The Fish


The world is our shadow.
Hunger is our mother.
We eat only the small luminescent
stars in the bloodstream.
Our currents carve the world
into its features. What was
hidden is now seen. What was
once eaten is now devoured.

The grouper off the coast
of Garrafón fill the dark rays
of the boat’s shadow with
their column and sway like
a tree in a breeze of water,
dispersing as you enter them.

We have faded beneath
silently, decades blooming
in an acid rose like thin
coloring in clear crystals,
like mercury climbing down
off the back of our mirror,
and entering the bloodstream.

Up Galloway reach, lochs
are still, not streams but dead
water wrestles deep, deeper
still, to the depths on bones
of rocks, the barren undersea
remnants of fish graveyards
decompose into the effluvium.

Where do whales escape
anoxic shock, or the mussel
as its shell weakens, or coral
when its skeletal seascrapers
crumble, and entropy’s
stale soup evolves? Waterways
lead to the sea like blood
to the brain, and we
swim in the change.

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