Blobfish
I’m happy to be your naturalist today
in this world, this day-vessel, held up by straps:
myths of creation, destruction,
punishment, mortgage clemency.
The local yardstick for success
is sunlessness; there are more evocative
songs about freedom and despair,
and really, is there anything new we can discover
about a woman in peril? A complex of
straps cross her: tanktop,
bra, purse, keychain, necklace, donate
shape, as peril would seem to. Is her
tattoo of a tight rose or of
a clenched fist with red nails,
either way, above a name
in a banner? A paper braid of belief in what happens
(announced like a bad, a regrettable hap)
girdles our awkward moon fish cloud
heraldry. Wet, flabby emblem, caught
and released, miraculous fruit
bringing a gray taste that stays.
Don’t fault that gray characteristic
droop like a stricken lid. Our middles resemble
disapproving faces, but we’re happy as
the straps of our thermal shopping
bags break and we get off the boat.
| Kate Schapira |
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