3.
My brother won a fish at a carnival.
I can’t remember why, maybe because he smashed
the most gophers with the most force and the least mercy, or
maybe he shot enough sitting ducks in the eye, or
maybe he drowned his own head in a bucket,
voiding the air in his lungs
to break his teeth on the skin of an apple.
All I remember is the moment my brother
dumped the fish into a bowl, filled with nothing
but finite water. The fish was so contained by his own
existence, cornered by nothing but his own reflections ricocheting
off the glass of the bowl, the water, the granite countertop, his own bulbous eyes, scales, teeth, everywhere,
there was the fish. The first time he jumped
out of the bowl, he must have wanted
to free himself from his ghosts—
the memory of a mother gone before he could break
through his own egg, the stench of plastic bag, the unforgiving
lights and loud sounds,
the loneliness—we found his body
thrashing
against the cold kitchen floor, heard him gasping
at the wood, a long splatter of water
to show how far he traveled, and I remember
the way he swam when we dropped him back into the bowl: furiously
lapping the perimeter, begging
the glass the water the granite his eyes scales teeth
to take him back. His regret filled the house.
So in the morning, when I came downstairs to see his still
silent body,
a stretch of water seeping into the floor,
I couldn’t understand why. I held his corpse in the palm
of my hand til it left a stain on my skin.
Years later,
I clench
the stain of his body
as I am smashed
with the most force the least mercy,
dig fingernails into the mark of his death
as I drown, bury myself in his shadow when
I try to void the violence from my body,
and I remember water pooling
across the floor, and I remember the way light reflects
off a fishbowl, I remember trying to jump
out of my own skin.
2.
My brother won a fish at a carnival.
I can’t remember why, maybe because he smashed
the most gophers with the most force and the least mercy, or
maybe he shot enough sitting ducks in the eye, or
maybe he drowned his own head in a bucket,
voiding the air in his lungs
to break his teeth on the skin of an apple.
All I remember is the moment my brother
dumped the fish into a bowl, filled with nothing
but finite water. The fish was so contained by its own
existence, cornered by nothing but his own reflections ricocheting
off the glass of the bowl, the water, the granite countertop, its own bulbous eyes, scales, teeth, everywhere,
there was the fish. The first time he jumped
out of the bowl, he must have wanted
to free himself from his ghosts—
the memory of a mother gone before he could break
through his own egg, the stench of plastic bag, the unforgiving
lights and loud sounds,
the loneliness—we found his body
thrashing
against the cold kitchen floor, heard him gasping
at the wood, a long splatter of water
to show how far he traveled, and I remember
the way he swam when we dropped him back into the bowl: furiously
lapping the perimeter, begging
the glass the water the granite his eyes scales teeth
to take him back. His regret filled the house.
So in the morning, when I came downstairs to see his still
silent body,
a stretch of water seeping into the floor,
I couldn’t understand why. I held his corpse
pse in the palm
of my hand til it left a stain on my skin.
Years later,
I clench
the stain of his body
as I am smashed
with the most force the least mercy,
dig fingernails into the mark of his death
as I drown, bury myself in his shadow when
I try to void the violence from my body,
and I remember water pooling
across the floor, and I remember the way light reflects
off a fishbowl, I remember trying to jump
out of my own skin.
1.
My brother won a fish at a carnival.
I can’t remember why, maybe because he smashed
the most gophers with the most force and the least mercy, or
maybe he shot enough sitting ducks in the eye, or
maybe he drowned his own head in a bucket,
voiding the air in his lungs
to break his teeth on the skin of an apple.
All I remember is the moment my brother
dumped the fish into a bowl, filled with nothing
but finite water. The fish was so contained by its own
existence, cornered by nothing but its own reflections ricocheting
off the glass of the bowl, the water, the granite countertop, its own bulbous eyes, scales, teeth, everywhere,
there was the fish. The first time he jumped
out of the bowl, he must have wanted
to free himself from his ghosts—
the memory of a mother gone before he could break
through his own egg, the stench of plastic bag, the unforgiving
lights and loud sounds,
the loneliness—we found his body
thrashing
against the cold kitchen floor, heard him gasping
at the wood, a long splatter of water
to show how far he traveled, and I remember
the way he swam when we dropped him back into the bowl: furiously
lapping the perimeter, begging
