Wistful of the fish
on ice,
poised as though
still swimming,
silver bodies
sliding through
silk currents.
They are whole
and glassy,
straight from the
sea, 300 miles
inland. They are artifacts
intact and nearly conscious.
As though they will
flop from the ice
and swim through the
aisles, picking out spices
and herbs.
They are pulled from
crates of frozen ocean
and laid to rest,
models on a slick
catwalk, a final
state of entirety.
Their eyes still
sharp and clear,
still smelling
like salt and brine,
still shimmering
under the fluorescents.
Simply diaspora,
they rest and sleep.
Waiting for a return
trip ticket to whence
they came. The bed
of melting ice
a bench at the greyhound
station.
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