For Krystal, on the day we
buried your mother
Remember the time we buried
a goldfish in a film canister?
Copper-tinted tail folded,
tucked under the cap.
We laid her to rest in a flowerbed.
As if one woman’s dirt
could ever be shallow enough
to unearth by hand,
but with our fists full,
we sure did try.
The deceased, found bobbing
and limp only hours before,
with too little oxygen,
finally let go of breathing.
What do we leave for the ground?
A decaying goldfish,
eyes affixed and vacant,
splayed open, for the world
to see its insides.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 1.
Megan Hall lives and works in Tennessee.
See all items about Megan Hall