Ship to Shore

A wire down, hissing
in the water between two
hollow tin towers bolted
down to different stones
on opposite shores. Fish
that swam too near now
bob on the surface like purses—
their eyes the identical yellow
of anti-freeze. Can you see
yourself in the opaque eye?
Get closer—right up to it. Now
tell that poor dead fish something—
something helpful. The last thing
you told me was that I was
getting fat. True, I was oh
so much fatter then.

Jennifer L. Knox

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