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FISH DRYING ON STONES
by Kim Bridgford
They might as well be something else, for fish
Is not what comes to mind: more like a wish
For birds that wakes a young philosopher,
Or angels lying down to soak the air.
But fish is what they are, their ribs displayed
Like those of a skinny girl in a parade.
There must be sixty of them placed on stones
That buoy them up, to dry along their bones.
Squint, and they seem like light that’s breaking up.
Kneel, and they seem like Christ who’s waking up,
His arms still out, but lying by the sea,
And conscious of his own mortality:
I’ll remember this forever, he will swear.
Then he’ll turn and see the others lying there.
Published in Measure