Silent screams, your two arms turned
to the eight of an octopus coiled
around my struggling chest, but not.
This is mental, not skin on skin,
simply neurons firing in the fishbowl skull,
carnival guppies frantic then expiring at will.
We smile and float, paint on clown fish stares,
cartoon round, as the watchers tap the glass
until we crack, prepared to gasp for air
but not. Remember. This is all in my head,
a dream or some other mystic fish that slips
its school and makes its way upstream.
Fog. Mist. Remnants of old arguments crust
the sides of the tank with algae, and I am
convinced that I will never remember
until I do. I drag my gloved hand
across the glass to clear it – suddenly,
a visible swath of stars.about the author