Tuesday, April 06, 2021

napowrimo day no. 6

 the little fish 


Carry a bowl to catch his blood, 

where it sinks into the ground, there 

by the yew tree. The little pond. 


The little life you carved from pussy willow 

and abandoned dock boards. When they ask 

you, say yes, it was I, but the body 


was cold for weeks before they knew 

it was gone. Underwater,time is hardly 

real—all minnows and sunlight 


and an approximation of trees. 

At the bottom, already half dead  

through winter, eyes open wide. 


The things you saw, there in the depths 

unreal, unmarred by daylight and so 

white and dark. The robin floating  


the surface but never coming down.  

Feathers and fins and so much red.  

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