|
The Betta Fish |
The afternoon sun clasps
its long fingers around
the bowl tilts colors
toward me vermilion,
indigo, amethyst.
The velvet bodice
is a can of gloss paint-
lid freshly lifted.
The chiffon train
a streak of sunset
drawn from mud;
a drop of ink dispersing
red calligraphy, scrawled
on wet paper.
I transfix on the gift
of a main artery-
on its vital surge.
I do not see the violent
sky before thunder.
Nor the cool glass solid
cast a bored shadow.
(Nor the sun stretch
it longingly across
the desk).
Nor the slow rise,
of solitary hunger.
Do not imagine the flash
of wet body breach
and thrash until still.
I do not see the puddle dry,
nor the colors pale.
copyright 2004
Charlotte
O'Brien |
