← v18n2, Fall 2019
Poetry · Volume 18, Number 2

Fish

The cop holds me up like a fish;

he feels the huge bones

surrounding my eyes,

and he runs a thumb under them,

lifting my eyelids

as if they were

envelopes filled with the night.

Now he turns

dashboard of a junked car.

By now he’s so sure of me

he chews gum,

and drops his flashlight to his side;

he could be cleaning a trout

while the pines rise into the darkness,

though tonight trout

are freezing into bits of stars

under the ice. When he lets me go

I feel numb. I feel like

a fish burned by his touch, and turn

and slip into the cold

night rippling with neons,

and the razor blades

of the poor,

and the torn mouths on posters.

Once, I thought even through this

I could go quietly as a star

turning over and over

in the deep truce of its light.

Now, I must

go on repeating the last, filthy

words on the lips

of this shrunken head,

shining out of its death in the moon—

until trout surface

with their petrified, round eyes,

and the stars begin moving.