In the morning, I'm missing a fish.
During my shower, I remember
how I bailed the tank the night before,
and, sure enough, I find the fish
dead in the sink, once opalescent,
but now blue-tinged, cold, and cruelly still.
I'm a killer, and
why not? It's the time of year,
late October, and the land prepares.
Will I live again through winter dreams?
Later, in waning light, I lay flat,
arms spread, praying to float away,
planning to die, wishing
I could force myself awake
and turn back into the creature
I was before, when not on earth.
It almost works. The ceiling splits,
and I think the heavens beckon.
If it weren't for my mean, stubborn heart,
I'd go.
I think of my cousin,
who, at thirty, left his brains
on the bedframe and departed for another place.
I'm almost thirty. Will I see him soon?
Did the dull walls of his room
drop to light a pathway out?
Or, when they found him, was he like the fish,
his beauty, the thing that shines through skin,
lost forever?
How can the night never answer?
