by Connie Coady
I met you once, cutting cheeses and bread with a dull knife in Jacks' cluttered and molding kitchen. The refrigerator light had gone out and one of us was a little bit hungover. A white paper bag of wasted pastries on a wire shelf next to cheap wine and nothing. I could see you halfly, and could tell your eyes were bigger than your head and imagined your head being heavy and making you turn circles in your grim water. The water was black and green and the walls of your home were black and green and I couldn't tell if you were black or green or something else entirely. We acknowledged you, but after that, there was little indication that you were still in the room. You, your peachy skin ; we, distracted by our own more sun-worn flesh.
Feeling guilty I wrote you this poem:
A seizure in my breakfast, milk
Your home. My porous Fruit-Loops
Your pulsy, bangled body
Clouds evict your skyline
A compromise is half your body
A tail is half, the other parts I don't know
much about the anatomy of fish
When we sleep do you speak a voice like noon?
Or tell secrets to your argonite, calcite,
dappled neon wasteland?
I push your Penn plax jewel stones
and wet my sleeve to grip you with my
fingers and put you on my open tongue
and swim you through my mouth and throat.
Dead before the train came.
drink like fishes, gulping til our lungs hurt,
swallow boring jealousy, the walls and contents