Once, I found a dead fish on the bony
bottom of what used to be, some days ago,
a rushing river. Scales like quarters glinted
in the wintry sun, each a relic tucked
beneath the next. A geometric miracle.
Its tail humbled on the ground. A fin reached
from its belly, seeking rest. I am not practiced
in the art of ichthyology, but I saw its armored
flesh butchered right where I imagined its heart
once pumped in tune with the tide. Six ribs
grinned out a toothy warning, or act of defiance.
No matter if maggots. After, there will still be
this skeleton, whole and holy and pearling
in the sun. As I watched, waiting
for the vultures to come, two swallowtails,
sun-dipped and fractal, feathered down
and settled to kiss this dead fish:
its futile gills, its white and sagging eyes,
its freshly souring cheeks:
to kiss, and kiss, and kiss.
Obi Taswell (they/them) is a queer and trans poet based in NYC. They have received several fellowships and were featured as a Brooklyn Poets Poet of the Week. Their work has been published in Third Iris and is forthcoming in Beyond Queer Words: A Queer Anthology and Eunoia Review.
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