Let Me Tell You About Fish

by Margaux Fragoso

Let me tell you about water,
Supple, clean, cleaving to the skin,
See-through.
Let me tell you about a lake,
Green as anoles,
Where fish hooks drown or conquer.
Let me tell you about the small eyes quaking,
Or what it's like to have a throat that does not feel.
Let me tell you of a school of minnows,
That break like bangles parting on a woman's wrist,
Let me tell you about a thousand thousand eggs,
Rising like apple cider bubbles,
Expanding like pupils,
Bursting out schools.
Let me tell you of an island in the middle of the green lake,
Green as goblins, surrounded by sunburnt earth,
And the sun that shone as one such stranger goblin,
Reflects in their fish eyes that do not point,
But laze on the sides of scaled faces like unsung miracles,
And each miracle is scripted, choreographed,
Right, left, right, down and across,
Let me tell you something--dancing is known, not invented
And follow the leader is the oldest game of all,
The herds and tribes and flocks and schools know best.
Let me tell you that if you put your hand into this knitted chorus of scales,
You will divide them,
But they will come together faster,
Than you can cast a line.