not this big. thank goodness.

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about finding something that doesn't belong where it is.


When the doctor put up the xray and the clinical
light box illuminated the plastic image
I understood why I had been feeling so peculiar.

We both, doctor and I, drew closer
but that wasn't necessary because the fish
that was caught just under its head
between the bones of my rib cage was not at all
small.

Now, knowing where to feel for it,
I could feel it
press into the soft cavity below my ribs and touch, vaguely
the tail, the points and bones of the tail,
feel it jerking now and again with a frantic force.

I had sensed it before.
The head for my heart. A need. A fitful, muted pull.
I couldn't name it.
Or I did name it.
But incorectly.

The doctor said there wasn't much he could do.
That it would die soon.
That time heals all wounds.
That less and less these days, in fact,
do these beauties actually make it home.
With dams and blocks. Well, it's harder than before.
He tells me I must carry this thing for awhile more.
That it is a good idea not to give it a name
or talk to it, even a little.

The doctor's office is near the river
so I go to the river.
Sit on the river rocks.
I feel the points and the bones of the tail
above my gut and to the right poking just slightly out.
A deep twitch. A weary tug backwards in my chest.

I lie down and take the rain on my face.
Make myself, as best as I can, like a still
familiar from long ago pool
- far from the teaming sea.
a place to rest
a place to lose one's color
to let go, in time,
one's gift for miraculous leaping.