He’s twirling three feet
ahead of the reporter’s yellowed boots,
searching for prey before migrating south.
Someone’s thrown rotten cheese into
the lake, leftover from pasta night, a fuzzy
cube half-buried under pebbles, visible
in the moonlit clear. The catfish eyes it, brushing
with its silver whiskers. A twitch later, it’s gone.
It has been a month since I could taste anything.
Catfish find aromas irresistible,
unlike me, eyes closed, struggling to remember
the taste of charred chicken. Catfish have a hundred
thousand taste buds within and around
their blue-black bodies, while I lay here, lemon
juice running down my chin, aching for a fizzle
on the tongue, to peel
back this numb, wet mouth,
the promise of zest dancing on the wind.
