Gleaming Things

[lorelea]

I was a money-girl when
          we met and when we were more
                    I picked fruit:
peaches
          with crinkled atmospheres, persimmons
                    skinned in tart slivers.
I gave you apples and
          you ate of them,
                    and you said they tasted good.
These days I stand
          holding heavy
                    in tired hands
what has been dredged up
          from depths I cannot quantify,
                    out from the insides of the sea.
Fish wrapped tight in
          white wax paper,
                    things that once darted and
leapt
          and eased low in the black waters that
                    most humans will never see.
Things look differently
          dead:
                    the eyes begin to glass
like failed marbles
          filming over in
                    pockets of wild grass.
The iridescent tessellation of scales
          flash
                    a thimble of mercury
in the dark,
          the last surge of
                    a mighty lighthouse,
the final traces of life
          trapped in the body
                    and
let go.
          I don’t know if anyone else sees these things
                    or cares to.
I suppose
          to most people,
                    more or less,
a fish is a fish.
          But I say, they did not see it
                    swim.
And when you know
          what it was
                    supposed to be --
you’ll remember
          the sapphire-flecked oranges, the muscadines’
                    sticky thick skin,
and pushing upstream
          as we did
                    near-barefoot wading through the creek as
minnows scattered
          and the sun hazed the silt with
                    endless flecks of mica.
We were in love
          and the days are passing.
                    I notice and cannot blame that
everyone likes
          looking at nice things:
                    Brazilian tigerfish, a batik of ink spots
          and bubble-gum meat.
                    The glistening scallops like raw biscuits in the case.
But whether we end up going home
          with
                    something,
or nothing,
          we will only want what we’re used to,
                    the known recipe
we could guess at,
          the texture our mouths recall and
                    the rewarding certainty
of choosing
          what we already know we will love.