catfish

wrapped in your arms, why can’t i feel you? maybe because it was in the sweat of summer when i first saw ice. it stood solid on a table, indifferent, cooling a fish that was long passed the hope of water. the air was thick with smoke, with the thoughts of how it will always go on. people circled. they screamed to the seagulls to get away. the whiskers of the fish sometimes twitched. i stared into the slab, reached out to the cool space of its stars, heard it wisp a single decree: to love was to find more than love.

later, the fish was soggy yet somehow dry in the mouth. later, you kiss me. later, you don’t.