08/23: scales bent back
Aug 23, 2017 · 1 min read
He snakes a hand into the ancient gate
and feels for the key, teal up to the wrist.
He slides it out as though I sit in wait
of an anointing gap. He is amiss,
hair bunned, black-clad, a skinny, flat-eyed white,
my orange folding chair creak-clanks, my skirt
a long blue zip. The fish have lost their fight;
they’re airing out their grievances, their hurt
shows in their flesh, the scales bent back, the blood
in their eyes clotting in the fresh-crushed ice.
We are nice! In every language, we shove
off each to galaxies, each void a slice
of shared propriety-eternity.
He sneaks the door ajar and slinks for tea.
