Fish Clouds

Lynda V. E. Crawford

Should we believe grandmothers when they tell us

those countless tiny clouds are the reflection of fish,

clustered bits of heaven moving ever so tightly in unison?

The fish the old man sells in his unpainted greyed wheelbarrow

aren’t at all like those fluffy whites. As he pushes through marled gaps,

chattel house to shedroof to wall house, he cries out poisson, poisson,

fresh fish!—silver, tinged with black; wings glistening, shiny scales.

His down-to-earth clouds exude brine and seawater—and will taste

even sweeter, folded tailfin through head tucked in melted butter,

tomatoes, sliced yellow onions. Fish man’s clouds are nothing like ghosts

hovering high above, hugged by blue sky all around.

While I lie on my back,

in my graveled yard

dreaming I’m a flying fish cloud

should I believe you, grandma, as you float by?

LYNDA V. E. CRAWFORD is a poet born and raised in Barbados. She lives in California. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her work is in journals including Prairie Schooner, ArtsEtc Barbados, The Caribbean Writer, The Galway Review, and California Quarterly. Crawford is the author of Washing Water (World Stage Press, 2024).