Luke W. Henderson

So about the fish…

The thing about a fish out of water

is that it’s dying,

taking deep gulps of burning nothing

holding on as long as it can,

The thing about a fish out of water

is that it sees passersby

pointing, wondering why it’s like that

gawking as searing needles drain it,

The thing about a fish out of water

is that people drizzle mist upon it,

a false rain of tiny band-aids,

but ignore its pleas to the sky,

The thing about a fish out of water

is that it’s desperate for recognition,

praying for someone to see it as it is

and stop the cycle of hurt.

∘˚˳°∘˚˳°

When you think of shark

what comes to mind?

Terror? the monstrous unknown

of the sea? a graveyard of teeth,

villains on the silver screen.

You probably think of

red picks shredding fleshy strings,

power chords erupting from their maw,

your screams amplified, vibrating membranes

as they pluck your sinews with their jaws.

They’re the looming auteur

waiting to steal your creative core

your soul, splashing, bleeding on

their canvas, their pale score.

But this is only one kind

of shark. The few poisoned barbs

among docile fins.

There’s the solitary nurse

who’d rather suck than bite,

inhaling serenades to gather food,

aquatic Mozart, music of the night.

There’s also the radiant pygmy

which can be held in one hand,

it’s unassuming and hides its shadow,

spa music, toes dipped in sand.

Do you see? The variety

of so-called horrors deep

are vast, a playlist infinite,

any mood or flavor can be met.

So let’s expand the reality,

the perception of shark

can be more than spectacle

that we enjoy in the dark.