come apart

 

by Kat Dixon

 

 

 

 

& listen

 

for the fault line patterning the wallpaper,

counting meter on the tinkling fish tank walls.  Our

 

fish now a purpled liver.  Wanting catalogue, each

shallow wave is swallowed in a foreign

 

language, in long sentences and lists.

(We are speaking now, but through

 

a window.)

 

On your lip, a solid hour of parked car accidents.

Our fish now a carwash.  Now a storm.  Stay —

 

 

stay at least until the hot water gives out, when,

pinched at the gills, I will open you ten at a time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kat Dixon is poetry editor of Divine Dirt Quarterly and author of four chaps, including Don’t Go Fish (Maverick Duck Press) and Birding (Thunderclap Press).  She may be found blinking at www.katdixon.weebly.com.