& each fish feels solid land before its gills
cease moving. I miss sex but can’t imagine
dating. Glass shatters in patterns designed
for a specific aftermath. What confession
offers isn’t relief. From my bed, coverlet tucked
under chin, I heard my father’s hand connect
with my mother’s cheek. A fish slap requires
actual fish-to-face contact. Windowpanes
bust in shards. Car windshields spider & smash
into square chunks or mini blocks, so on impact
they won’t decapitate or slash the face. A tank’s
ideal temperature for tropical fish is 75 to 80 degrees.
I tried to learn how to stab the worm on the hook
to bait the prey, but in the end I was only called
a pussy. Tackle box tipped over, the red & white
striped sleek lure. Don’t they think of everything:
claims to cover any minor loss, inspections to avert
damage. Even so, at the health center, the multiple-choice
form omits the oval to fill in adopted so I leave
the question blank. We’re here to consider my choices
in contraception, how to prevent an itchy rash down there
& to discuss the definitions of sex & life. What’s hereditary
gets lost to wonderland, elsewhere a consultant advises
curators on predation, tells the team which fish to import
for show-stopping colors & compatibility. But we know
the inspector misses the crack, walks by the leak, & finally
without pause someone sweeps & stuffs dozens of trash bags
with glass & dead fish parts. We want what we want.
Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Audsley. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 14, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.
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