King Carp

And then she felt bad-
the fish in its tub.
Their chipped and dull
shower-tub suburban combo.
Here, in such a 
plain
cage-
its scales waning in color,
losing the beautiful olive
sheen.

Carp- king without throne-
dear diaspora fish,
please forgive.
 Do you hold out your fins
in mercy?

She felt her stomach churn
with the 
sour-milk
thoughts.
Zesting off the matte scales.
Flaying the belly full of-?
Wishes?
Twists of guts or bone?

Forgive, forgive,
for she does not know.
Majesty, your lips
whispering through the
tap water growing grime.

She lays her fingers
on a 
surface of tension,
the audible bursting of
boundaries.

Gliding along your slippery sides,
Oh Carp,
his throne 
betrayed-
washing up in
one thousand coins of gold.

[I wrote this today in Lit, when I wasn't supposed to be, because I decided I wanted to.]