Piscine

A stomach of dust can have me for dinner. 

My head in the waste bin, guts plucked and 
Rawness within removed - Too true, I am no 

Particular delicacy. But, see, I've  already begun 

To section my flesh for a lifetime by finger. 

When I grow nervous or panicked I

Catch my claw at my neck, gently 

Scratching, as if to peel open a 

Flap capping a backup gash for a 

Lung's fill of oxygen

Like a goddamned fish. My 

Eyes swivel to the sides, my skin 

A rubber suit of armor, slick and wet, 

Soil for fins. A mouth fixed to a 

Shrunken zero. And you stand 

High as a fever, swaying like the 

Concrete heat that sits on the 

Hood of my car, a jittering veil 

Between us.

You flick your cigarette. It turns to flies. 

I carefully bob at them, their 

Promises, warnings - Look at your face. 

Below that glass nose rest two thin worms, 

One atop the other. They part in invitation - 

The graceful, grubby curtains of a dark hidden 

Hook, meant to pass unnoticed - I've noticed 

A thousand times. You lower your face into a 
Dream, spitting that slow steeled gray J into the 

Crests of a sea - I fall for all three. Hook, line, 
Sinker, and you're feasting on me. 



© 2015 BENJAMIN SMITH