Fish at the quarry
I usually hide Fish in my stomach, let it flip away
angrily in the acid, or else I stuff it in my pocket,
where it gets all woolly and dry, and goes still.
Today, I take Fish to the quarry, let it stew in me
as I gaze out over the city, the hills, the tiny tram
gliding yellow away from us. The huge, stretched
balloon sky calls for Fish to swim, but it will end up
gasping and frightened, so I keep it inside, safe.
It whacks its tail at me. I sprawl by the sculpture
like a big fruit stone and I read, gulp back water,
and Fish drinks and calms, tells me, I forgive you.
I have my hastily-made picnic. Fish feels stronger.
I wander over these mounds of land, the late sun
bathing us golden. So much sandstone beneath us,
the bones of a city, years of sweat and togetherness.
Maybe everything is ocean, swollen with creatures,
moving and feeding, glowing with colour. I spread
my arms wide, Fish leaps, and we have a moment
with the ghosts and crickets, the sliver of moon.
Fish, let’s go home, shower, make this bubble of air
last us. There will be days when I can’t find us any.