He’d had this glint
in his eye as I watched his compact body
dance in circles, buoyant like a blimp.

His fights reflected
in the wet, black flesh of his back.

I stare at this picture,
and he’s laid up, belly up,
shoulder to shoulder
with the rest . . . just the same as the rest.

Four years I’ve had this picture
framed and collecting dust on the wall
with the photos of my dog Danny,
my high school graduation, one of Grandma,
and a few of the boat. For years
I’ve looked at it—nine corpses
stiff with rigor mortis, mouths agape,
pupils dilated—all I can see is bruised flesh.

Yellow
and brown and blue.
Exploded blood
vessels.
Festered and maroon wounds.

In death they are all the same.
I know nothing of their lives . . .
children, lovers, sisters.
Were they bankers? poets? boxers?
Were they esteemed politicians?
Or humble teachers? Did they eat fish?
Did they have bad breath?
I don’t know. I don’t know!

To me they are just fish
from the sea, lying in grass.

07/02/2006

Posted on 07/02/2006
Copyright © 2024 S. Pelham Flood