Poor Fish

I lie on the couch
A limp fish
though I am still breathing
On the TV
the salmon on the chef’s board —
looking fresher than me —
is most certainly dead
The knife slides smoothly
through the soft flesh
I think longingly of butter and toast
His fingers run tenderly
over the succulent pink
Then he yanks the bones out
The way I sometimes rip words
out of my soul — not quite so cleanly
for the jagged edges
fuse awkwardly into scars
But we do have something in common
The hapless salmon and I —
Neither of us bleeds
Poor fish, I think
I wonder with whom
my sympathies lie

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