The End of the Argument, #88

Fine. Wings curled up
like my hatred,
my love of fish
swimming below
the surface,
my tendency to think
mean things
and say nothing.
Which leaves a bad taste,
an aroma of anger, hint
of seasoning. Our marriage
simmers on this stove, recipe
for distemper, it sits
in our intestine, collars us
round the middle, burrows
into our flesh like mercury
to the fish. Here are our gills.
My wishing unabated,
my longing to
draw lovers and wonder
what bends around
the next round curve.
My secret desires
to speak, to say,
for consequence free
fighting, an unquenchable thirst
for a disposable world.
I agree out of habit,
switch candidates,
ideologies, parties,
keep my honest beliefs
pinned deep inside
the lapel of my jacket.
Here are our arguments,
bitter and shrill,
the ones I dream,
calm and intellectual.
The fish
are humming arias
in the oceans,
river ballads,
sonnets beneath
municipal lakes,
haiku in the pond
cross the street.
I’m listening,
yes listening,
can parrot back every word.
Here are the fish
within my imagination,
listening with moist ears.
I stick my head
underwater, stop
breathing, dream
of thick porterhouse,
bird flu,
steak and gills.
Here are the fish. Here
are my fins. Here
swims the moist sins
of habit and blind allegiance,
political gain and capital,
peace in love acquired
through biting a quiet lip.
While you were out
I was brooding,
boiling, simmering,
straightening the lair,
sauteing our dinner.
There are lone birds
in trees singing,
fish in water
sampling the kelp.
Here are the birds.
All of them sung
in their own trees.
One of them
startled to movement,
all off and twisting, off
in unison. Like
and agreed
in their change of direction.
A long, lovely
commute to safety.
Here’s to our ignorance,
foul and absurd. For the fish,
for the fine wine at dinner,
and for the birds.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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