Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue One

William Page

How the Dead Fish

They drop their lines through opaque clouds. Gravity is an invisible sinker left by memory. The dead look down at haddock with rainbow painted eyes swimming in circles. Mackerel and tuna dive deep into their dreams. Birds flying in the stratosphere see the dead above clouds have no wings. They sit in silver skiffs assembled by welders of stars. As floats are tugged down, the dead stand up straight, to pull in their catch, which they lay out in three rows. When they finish, they store their tackle in cabinets with pearl doors. They row slowly towards shore, knowing they have all the time in the world.