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

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s