The catfish.
It fell, and aimed straight for the knees. Before
it hit the ground the room filled thigh-high
with dark grey water.
He couldn't tell where the water had come
from, but there were buckets full of shellfish
turning, to dinner.
I grabbed it in both my hands, wide, until
the fingernails were quick becoming scales.
He couldn't let go,
and the fish seemed determined to carry
me into every corner, it wriggled
and we wrestled.
And suddenly the rhythm of my gills
was matching the pulse in his fingertips
(open closed open)
--i have a somewhere else to get to, sir,
this struggle is suicide-- as he slipped
below and drowned.
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