It Can Be Known

That he was a fat man. Gut
lapping the belt line, skin blue
where the weight of flesh
burst his veins. It can also
be known that he was a thin
man. His neck exposed sinews
where tendons set his skull
at the nape, a turn of head
rounding out the crabapple
in the throat. Beyond this,
it is plain that the man
always drank a from a paper
cup, except when drinking
from a skillet. Neither of these
drinkings happened frequently.
We might also note that he ran
a certain distance daily, though
number of miles and destination
are ill-documented. It can be said
that once, as he counted his coins
by divisions of ten and of five,
he came to know that all things
were connected: that his molecular
structure was the same as the dime’s,
that the face in profile was his,
that he might take assurance
in the affinity of all creatures,
that the world, by tens or fives,
was his, and his for the usage.
From here, all is speculation.

“I Let The Fish Go”

—Elizabeth Bishop

The fish can survive in tanks
of stale water—they need no oxygen,
no soluble food flakes dropped
from hands, no window light
to warm bodies held behind glass.
The fish may live this way for weeks,
pebble-eyes going darker in first days
of neglect, copper scales soiling.
Their bowls left in closets, toed behind
dishwashers, hidden beneath heaps
of old clothes, the unfed fish
may live for months, threatening eyes
forgotten if unseen. But when they leave,
their ascent of flesh from water’s chill
is rarely belly-first. Long fins
and lap-layers of old coins lift
from their flanks. Their bodies crest
with the rhythm of water-logged silt,
a dull penny of speech edging
from between each loosened scale.

Sorrow

I have considered the following tattoos:
A skull with a little flesh left on, dagger
coming through the eye socket: back of the thigh.
A crown of leaves circling shoulders instead
of my head. A carrot sprouting from my sternum.
Blue flowers uncurling from stems
like old memory. A skull without any flesh
left, dry bone cracking: palm
of the hand. A scatter of fennel: left wrist.
Sparrows carrying blue forget-me nots.
Rope of vines at the belly. A blue
banner with the text: forget. Scissors
poking a hole through the sternum. A skull
broken to pieces, eye sockets gone: side
of the throat. Blueberries with puckered necks
ragged as old memory, and a skull
with a dagger coming through the eye socket.