The Anglerfish
On rainy days, when recess was past hope,
The television's high, black cart would be
Brought out, and in the darkness, Jacques Cousteau
Descended. Bobbing first among the waves,
He sank from blue to deepest black until
He flicked some switch, illumining the sea
Outside his bathysphere. We saw it then:
Like floating garbage, mottled skin adrift
With needle teeth the tint of watered milk,
And stranger still: a lighted flag of flesh
Attached. It turned its glowing grin toward
The class, and past the open gate of teeth --
A dark too distant for the searching light,
A backless pain, that ache: to eat. To know.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
