Halfway through the week,
someone pointed to a skeleton of a fish,
drawing lines and wondering
what was the root of the problem;
a fish bone in my chest, a silver lure with a black cord
was caught in my throat.
I was really human at one time. I wasn’t a fish
but wanted to go with others in suit, upstream,
and swam with the fear of losing myself
in a sudden turn, a wave.
My brother home from the hospital;
his thin hand held a lit cigarette.
He cursed his food, the weather.
I was tired of running errands,
of not answering him,
Christianity settling in that house, around me
branches and tributaries with instructions.
An x-ray showed me
recovering alone; shiny scales redistributed
or tossed, a spinal column: arms, legs and a mouth
working, moving away.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 3.
See all items about Cathy McArthur