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Good Poetry

Dead Fish

Sophie Yu

I imagined it differently: flat belly faced
up at a cloudless sky.
two tapioca bubbles wide open –
scooped out and hammered into the sides
of a spotted head, speckled
dull tangerine and red like the wine hidden
behind the oreos in the pantry,
funeral black plastered
onto two limp fins kissing the dirt bed underneath
as we carved the name into the earth
with broken twigs
and scattered leaves around the grave.

Instead: flat belly faced up
at the ceiling fan. Two
bottomless marbles staring
at an ivory wall – a spotted
head, speckled dull tangerine
and coral. Funeral
black and a strip of white
plastered onto two limp fins no longer
swimming through water but rather
rubbing slick scales against the pebbles
we bought at Michaels
on the last day of 6th grade
and dumped into
the transparent helmet of the tank.

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