by Suzanne Honda

I came here hoping to find water;

and in it, some prior-to-unknown truth,

some gospel in the stench of a headless fish

hidden beneath the weeds.

Instead, the fishermen in their boats bob on the waves

and the trilling blackbird with its red wing picks at the fish flies

already-dead, their dry bodies hollow on the concrete,

what remains of their cathedral wings

a refracted summer light.

That something so small could be holy

and, in consuming it, the papist bird made holy also,

a wholly sacred holy-making wherein men with nets

ducking their heads towards unseen fish

partake in an unspoken prayer—seeing this, I think

of how some of us are made to listen and some to speak.

The lucky get both: fish for words, scales for song,

fins in place of silent flight, however fleeting.

Above me, a lone gull soars.

Already the sun’s absence is an ache.

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Suzanne Honda (she/her) is a poet and teaching artist based in Michigan, where she lives with her partner and their two cats. When she is not writing, she is either curating her wildflower garden, making playlists for friends, or experimenting in her kitchen. Suzanne is published in Bear River Review.