← v9n1, Spring 2010
Poetry · Volume 9, Number 1

Sweethearts

There is no wind in the barely lit

afternoon bar. The man next to me

says to the woman on the stool next to him,

“I think you and your fish

should move in with me.”

The woman smiles, says nothing,

but offers him her hands; their eyes

grow wide like fields of Iowa corn,

like green fields of soy before they turn

autumn rust. And as their hearts

sit naked on the bar, thumping,

bloody for all to see, I think how hard

it must be to move a fish.