A fish does poetry
like a tree: scales, tangled
like lover's hair, layered
fins so fine, silver, biting bright
flashing Morse in the winter sun.
A deer may run, and have a crown, but fish—
no, fish are sacred—
divine, by their own right,
they swim the stygian depths
and come up, gaspingly
to breathe the salt-laden air;
to spawn in silver bullet-storms—
they throttle the forest floor
with bodies; later, in the next generation
they hunt like tuna—
gnashing, merciless,
schools, fleets of power—
just like people do.
A fish is a poem
in the dish, in the pan
in the oval fish hatcheries, ever cycling
into infinity, teeming—
dusty, with all who came before
fresh, with all who come now—
waiting, for those who come after.
No matter its origin—
no matter whether it has seen
forest
creek
mountain-peak
snowmelt, ski-slope gritty
concrete walls, labyrinthine—
a fish is a fish,
and its scales tell history.
And it does so in verse
for fish speak no lies
and are always pleased
that they are our feast.
