dead fish

James Shapiro

in this new time where no one wants to speak

a fish head came unwillingly to town

lies in the cross street

sun illuminates the head as big as a splayed human hand

the mouth, which once ate smaller fish, remains jaw open

the right and upward facing eye, sunk a little at sunset time, still has gloss

the expression is perplexed as fish do not have facial muscles

but the universal look of death is utterly recognizable

dead ants and butterflies and parents

fall at a mighty rate but this species of gravity

is not falling from a height to point of impact

this is not textbook physics, this is death

nearby, gills reveal a lipsticked fan of mirth

brown rice flattened by the passage of tires

smears tar

reveals the intermediate origin

which is the Japanese restaurant on the corner

the customers have gone

the chef has gone

we will never know the full story

no one does

red and all else shine at the intersection of 82nd and Second.

JAMES SHAPIRO lives in New York City and works as a teacher. His poems and short fiction pieces have been published in various journals and reviews.