3. There is a Fish

There is a Fish that swims inside my head

Where once there was a voice, quite loud, but still

As water that reflects for us a hill

With shrill cicadas singing to the dead,

“For seventeen rotations have we fed

“On sap from tree roots. Now we’ve had our fill

“And, born aloft by newformed wings, we will

“Arise!” And so, they fly until they’ve bred.

Perhaps like that it was the Fish awoke,

Transmogrified from still life to the brush

That moves across the canvas. Thus, the Fish

Leaves traces in my mind. When first it spoke,

I blocked it out and whispered softly, “Hush!”

Then, horrified, I felt its tail fin swish.